'7T 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Dr.  Adriaan 


THE  BOOKS  OF  THE 
SMALL  SOULS 

By 
LOUIS  COUPERUS 

Translated  by 
ALEXANDER  TEIXEIRA  de  MATTOS 

I.  SMALL  SOULS. 

IL  THE  LATER  LIFE. 

in.  THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS. 

IV.  DR.  ADRIAAN. 


DR.  ADRIAAN 


BY 


LOUIS  COUPERUS 


TRANSLATED  BY 

ALEXANDER  TEIXEIRA  DE  MATTOS 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,   MEAD   AND    COMPANY 

1918 


COPYKIOHT.   1918 

By  DODD.   MEAD  AND  COMPANY.  Iwc 


rr 


TRANSLATOR'S  NOTE 

Dr.  Adriaan  is  the  fourth  and  last  of  the  volumes 
forming  The  Books  of  the  Small  Souls.  In  it  the 
reader  renews  his  acquaintance  with  all  the  char- 
acters that  survive  from  Small  Souls,  The  Later 
Life  and  The  Twilight  of  the  Souls. 

Alexander  Teixeira  de  Mattos. 

Chelsea,  30  March,  19 18. 


633050 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2007  witii  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arcliive.org/details/dradriaanOOcoupiala 


CHAPTER  I 

The  afternoon  sky  was  full  of  thick,  dark  clouds, 
drifting  ponderously  grey  over  almost  black  violet: 
clouds  so  dark,  heavy  and  thick  that  they  seemed 
to  creep  laboriously  upon  the  east  wind,  for  all  that 
it  was  blowing  hard.  In  its  breath  the  clouds  now  and 
again  changed  their  watery  outline,  before  their  time 
came  to  pour  down  in  heavy  straight  streaks  of  rain. 
The  stiff  pine-woods  quivered,  erect  and  anxious, 
along  the  road;  and  the  tops  of  the  trees  lost 
themselves  in  a  silver-grey  air  hardly  lighter 
than  the  clouds  and  dissolving  far  and  wide 
under  all  that  massive  grey-violet  and  purple-black 
which  seemed  so  close  and  low.  The  road  ran 
near  and  went  winding  past,  lonely,  deserted 
and  sad.  It  was  as  though  it  came  winding  out 
of  low  horizons  and  went  on  towards  low 
horizons,  dipping  humbly  under  very  low  skies, 
and  only  the  pine-trees  still  stood  up,  pointed,  proud 
and  straight,  when  everything  else  was  stooping. 
The  modest  villa-residence,  the  smaller  poor  dwell- 
ings here  and  there  stooped  under  the  heavy  sky  and 
the  gusty  wind;  the  shrubs  dipped  along  the  road- 
side; and  the  few  people  who  went  along — an  old 
gentleman;  a  peasant-woman;  two  poor  children 
carrying  a  basket  and  followed  by  a  melancholy, 
big,  rough-coated  dog — seemed  to  hang  their  heads 
low  under  the  solemn  weight  of  the  clouds  and  the 
fierce  mastery  of  the  wind,  which  had  months  ago 
blown  the  smile  from  the  now  humble,  frowning, 
pensive  landscape.  The  soul  of  that  landscape  ap- 
peared small  and  all  forlorn  in  the  watery  mists  of 
the  dreary  winter. 


2  DR.  ADRIAAN 

The  wind  came  howling  along,  chill  and  cold,  like 
an  angry  spite  that  was  all  mouth  and  breath;  and 
Adeletje,  hanging  on  her  aunt's  arm,  huddled  into 
herself,  for  the  wind  blew  chill  in  her  sleeves  and 
on  her  back. 

"Are  you  cold,  dear?" 

*'  No,  Auntie,"  said  Adeletje,  softly,  shivering. 

Constance  smiled  and  pressed  Adeletje's  arm  close 
to  her: 

"  Let's  walk  a  little  faster,  dear.  It'll  warm  you; 
and,  besides,  I'm  afraid  it's  going  to  rain.  It's  quite 
a  long  way  to  the  old  lady's  and  back  again.  .  .  . 
I  fear  I've  tired  you." 

"  No,  Auntie." 

"  You  see,  I  didn't  want  to  take  the  carriage. 
This  way,  we  do  the  thing  by  ourselves;  and  other- 
wise everybody  would  know  of  it  at  once.  And  you 
must  promise  me  not  to  talk  about  it." 

"  No,  Auntie,  I  won't." 

"  Not  to  anybody.  Otherwise  there'll  be  all  sorts 
of  remarks;  and  it's  no  concern  of  other  people's 
what  we  do." 

"  The  poor  old  thing  was  very  happy.  Auntie. 
The  beef-tea  and  the  wine  and  chicken   ..." 

*'  Poor  little  old  woman   ..." 

"And  so  well-mannered.  And  so  discreet.  .  .  -. 
Auntie,  will  Addie  be  back  soon?  " 

"  He's  sure  to  telegraph." 

"  It's  very  nice  of  him  to  take  such  pains  for 
Alex.  We  all  of  us  give  Addie  a  lot  of  trouble.  .  .  . 
When  do  you  think  he'll  come  back?" 

"I  don't  know;  to-morrow,  or  the  next 
day.   .    .    ." 

"  Auntie,  you've  been  very  fidgety  lately." 

"  My  dear,  I  haven't." 

"  Yes,  you  have.  .  .  .  Tell  me,  has  anything 
happened  with  Mathilde  ?    Has  there  ?  " 


DR.  ADRIAAN  3 

"  No,  child.  .  .  .  But  do  keep  your  little 
mouth  shut  now.  I'm  frightened,  the  wind's  so- 
cold." 

They  walked  on  in  silence,  Adeletje  accommo^ 
dating  her  step  by  Aunt  Constance'  regular  pace. 
Constance  was  a  good  walker;  and  Addie  always 
said  that,  leading  the  outdoor  life  she  did.  Mama 
grew  no  older.  They  had  now  been  living  for  ten 
years  at  Driebergen,  in  the  big,  old,  gloomy  house, 
which  seemed  to  be  lighted  only  by  themselves,  by 
their  affection  for  one  another,  but  which  Constance 
had  never  brought  herself  to  like,  hard  though  she 
tried.  Ten  years!  How  often,  oh,  how  often  she 
saw  them  speed  before  her  in  retrospect  1  .  .  .  Ten 
years:  was  it  really  ten  years?  How  quickly  they 
had  passed!  They  had  been  full  and  busy  years; 
and  Constance  was  satisfied  with  the  years  that  had 
fleeted  by,  only  she  was  distressed  that  it  all  went 
so  fast  and  that  she  would  be  old  before.  .  .  .  But 
the  wind  was  blowing  too  fiercely  and  Adeletje  was 
hanging  heavily  on  her  arm — poor  child,  she  was 
shivering:  how  cold  she  must  be! — and  Constance 
could  not  follow  her  thoughts.  .  .  .  Before  .  .  . 
before  .  .  .  Well,  if  she  died,  there  would  be 
Addie.  .  .  .  Only  .  .  .  No,  she  couldn't  think 
now;  and  besides  they  would  be  home  presently. 
.  .  .  They  would  be  home  .  .  .  Home!  The 
word  seemed  strange  to  her;  and  she  did  not  think 
that  right.  And  yet,  struggle  against  the  singular 
emotion  as  she  would,  she  could  not  cure  herself 
of  thinking  that  big  house  gloomy  and  regretting 
the  little  villa  in  the  Kerkhoflaan  at  the  Hague, 
even  though  she  had  never  known  any  great  domestic 
happiness  there.  .  .  .  Still  .  .  .  still,  one  loves  the 
thing  that  one  has  grown  used  to;  and  was  it  not 
funny  that  she  had  grown  so  fond  of  that  little 
house,  where  she  had  lived  four  years,  and  been 


4  DR.  ADRIAAN 

disconsolate  when,  after  the  old  man's  death,  Van 
der  Welcke  and  Addie  too  had  Insisted  on  moving 
to  the  big,  sombre  villa  at  Driebergen?  .  .  . 
Fortunately,  it  was  at  once  lighted  by  all  of  them, 
by  their  affection  for  one  another;  if  she  had  not 
had  the  consoling  brightness  of  mutual  love,  oh,  it 
would  have  been  impossible  for  her  to  go  and  live 
in  that  dark,  gloomy,  cavernous  villa-house,  among 
the  eternally  rustling  trees,  under  the  eternally 
louring  skies !  The  house  was  dear  to  Van  der 
Welcke  and  Addie  because  of  a  strange  sympathy, 
a  sense  that  their  home  was  there  and  nowhere  else. 
The  father  was  born  in  the  house  and  had  played 
there  as  a  child;  and  the  son,  strangely  enough, 
cherished  the  exact  same  feeling  of  attraction 
towards  it.  Had  they  not  almost  forced  her  to 
move  into  the  house:  Van  der  Welcke  crying  for  it 
like  a  child,  first  going  there  for  a  few  days  at  a 
time  and  living  there  with  nobody  but  the  decrepit 
old  charwoman  who  made  his  bed  for  him;  then 
Addie  following  his  father's  example,  fitting  up  a 
room  for  herself  and  making  constant  pretexts — 
that  he  must  go  and  have  a  look  among  his  papers, 
that  he  must  run  down  for  a  book — seizing  any 
excuse  that  offered?  .  .  .  Then  they  left  her  alone, 
in  her  house  in  the  Kerkhoflaan.  That  had  trees 
round  it  too  and  skies  overhead.  But  it  was  strange : 
among  those  trees  in  the  Hague  Woods,  under 
those  clouds  which  came  drifting  from  Schoveningen, 
she  had  felt  at  home,  though  their  little  villa  was 
only  a  house  hired  on  a  five  years'  lease,  taken  at 
the  time  under  Addie's  deciding  influence.  He, 
quite  a  small  boy  then,  had  gone  and  seen  the  fat 
estate-agent.  .  .  .  Oh,  how  the  years,  how  the 
years  hurried  past!  .  .  .  To  think  that  it  was  all 
so  long  ago  1  .  .  .  Strange,  in  that  leasehold  house 
she  had  felt  at  home,  at  the  Hague,  among  her 


DR.  ADRIAAN  5 

relations,  under  familiar  skies  and  among  familiar 
people  and  things,  unyielding  though  both  things 
and  people  had  often  proved.  Whereas  here.  In  this 
house,  in  this  great  cavernous,  gloomy  villa-residence 
— and  she  had  lived  In  it  since  the  old  man's  death 
fully  ten  years  ago — ^she  had  always  felt,  though 
the  house  belonged  to  them  as  their  inheritance,  as 
their  family-residence,  a  stranger,  an  intruder,  one 
who  had  come  there  by  accident  .  .  .  along  with 
her  husband  and  her  son.  She  could  never  shake 
off  this  feeling.  It  pursued  her  even  to  her  own 
sitting-room,  which,  with  its  bits  of  furniture  from 
the  Kerkhoflaan,  was  almost  exactly  the  same  as 
her  little  drawing-room  at  the  Hague.  .  .  .  Oh, 
how  the  wind  blew  and  how  Adeletje  was  shivering 
against  her:  if  only  the  poor  child  did  not  fall  ill 
from  that  long  walk!  .  .  .  There  came  the  first 
drops  of  rain,  thick  and  big,  like  tears  of  despair. 
.  .  .  She  put  up  her  umbrella  and  Adeletje  pushed 
still  closer,  walked  right  up  against  her,  under  the 
same  shelter,  so  as  to  feel  safe  and  warm.  .  .  . 
The  lane  now  ran  straight  into  the  high  road;  and 
there,  before  you,  lay  the  house.  ...  It  stood  In 
its  own  big  garden — nearly  a  park,  with  a  pool  at 
the  back — like  a  square,  melancholy  block,  dreary 
and  massive;  and  she  could  not  understand  why 
Van  der  Welcke  and  Addle  clung  to  it  so.  Or  rather 
she  did  understand  now;  but  she  .  .  .  no,  she  did 
not  care  for  the  house.  It  never  smiled  to  her, 
always  frowned,  as  It  stood  there  broad  and  severe, 
as  though  imperishable,  behind  the  front-garden, 
with  the  dwarf  rose-bushes  and  standard  roses 
wound  in  straw,  awaiting  the  spring  days.  ...  It 
looked  down  upon  her  with  its  front  of  six  upper 
windows  as  with  stern  eyes,  which  suffered  but 
never  forgave  her.  ...  It  was  like  the  old  man 
himself,  who  had  died  without  forgiving.  .    .   .  Oh, 


(S  DR.  ADRIAAN 

she  could  never  have  lived  there  if  she  had  not 
always  remembered  the  old  woman's  forgiveness, 
that  last  hour  of  gentleness  by  her  bedside,  the 
reconciliation,  in  complete  understanding  and  know- 
ledge almost  articulate,  offered  at  the  moment  of 
departure  for  ever.  .  .  .  Then  it  seemed  to  her  as 
if  she  heard  the  old  woman's  breaking  voice  speak 
softly  to  her  and  say : 

"  Forgive,  even  though  he  never  forgives,  for  he 
will  never  forgive.  .    .    . " 

And  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  heard  that  voice, 
rustling  with  soft  encouragement,  in  the  wind,  in 
the  trees,  now  that  she  was  passing  through  the 
garden,  while  the  implacable  house  looked  down 
upon  her  with  that  everlasting  cold  frown.  It  was 
a  strange  feeling  which  always  sent  a  shudder 
through  her  for  just  two  or  three  seconds  every  time 
that  she  went  past  the  roses  in  their  straw  wrappings 
to  the  great  front  door,  the  feeling  which  had  sent 
a  shudder  through  her  the  very  first  time  when  she 
alighted  from  their  carriage  .  .  .  after  being  dis- 
owned for  years,  as  a  disgrace,  hidden  away  in  a 
corner.  ...  It  was  only  for  two  or  three  seconds. 
The  rain  was  now  splashing  down.  She  closed  her 
umbrella  as  Truitje  opened  the  door,  with  a  glad 
laugh,  that  mevruow  had  got  home  before  it  abso- 
lutely poured;  and  now  she  was  in  the  long  hall. 
.  .  .  Oh,  what  a  gloomy  hall  it  was,  with  the  oak 
doors  on  either  side,  the  Delft  jugs  on  the  antique 
cabinet;  the  engravings  and  family-portraits;  and 
then,  at  the  far  end,  the  one  door  gloomier  than 
the  others,  that  door  which  led  .  .  .  simply  to  a 
small,  inner  staircase,  for  the  servants,  so  that  they 
should  not  constantly  be  using  the  main  staircase. 
.  .  .  But  she  had  not  known  this  until  she  moved 
in  and,  yielding  to  an  impulse,  ran  to  the  sombre 
door  which  had  always  stared  at  her,  from  the  far 


DR.  ADRIAAN  7 

end  of  that  typical  Dutch  interior,  as  an  eternally- 
sealed  mystery.  .  .  .  Pluckily,  playing  the  mistress 
of  the  house  who  was  looking  into  things,  while 
her  heart  beat  with  terror,  she  had  opened  the  door 
and  seen  the  staircase,  the  little  staircase  winding  up 
in  the  dark  to  the  bedroom  floor;  and  the  old  char- 
woman had  told  her  that  it  was  very  handy  for 
carrying  up  water,  because  there  was  no  water  laid 
on  upstairs:  a  decided  fault  in  the  house.  .  .  . 
Then  she  had  shut  the  door  again  and  known  all 
about  it:  a  little  back-stair,  for  the  maids,  and 
nothing  more.  .  .  .  But  why  had  she  never  opened 
the  door  since,  never  touched  the  handle  ?  No  doubt 
because  there  was  no  need  to,  because  she  felt  sure 
that  the  maids  would  scrub  the  small  staircase  as 
well  as  the  big  one  on  the  days  set  aside  for  cleaning 
stairs  and  passages.  Why  should  she  have  opened 
the  gloomy  door  ?  .  .  .  And  she  had  never  opened 
it  since.  Once  and  once  only  she  had  seen  it  open; 
old  Mie  had  forgotten  to  shut  it;  and  she  had 
grumbled,  had  told  Truitje  that  it  looked  slovenly 
to  leave  the  door  open  like  that.  .  .  .  She  had 
then  seen  the  little  staircase  winding  up  in  the  dark, 
its  steps  just  marked  with  brown  stripes  against  the 
black  of  the  shadow.  .  .  .  But  the  door,  when 
closed,  stared  at  her.  She  had  never  told  anyone; 
but  the  door  stared  at  her  .  .  .  like  the  front  of 
the  house.  Yes,  in  the  garden  behind,  the  back- 
windows  also  stared  at  her  as  with  eyes,  but  more 
gently,  sadly  and  almost  laughingly,  with  an  en- 
couraging and  more  winsome  look  amid  the  livelier 
green  of  the  lime-trees  which,  in  summer,  sur- 
rounded her  with  their  heavy  fragrance.  .  .  . 
Summer!  ...  It  was  November  now,  with  its 
incessant  wind  and  rain,  raging  all  around  and 
against  the  house  and  rattling  on  the  window-panes 
until  they  shivered.   ...   It  was  a  strange  feeling 


g  DR.  ADRIAAN 

ever  and  always,  though  it  did  last  for  only  two  or 
three  seconds,  but  she  could  not  feel  at  home  there. 
.  .  .  And  yet  during  those  ten  years  her  life  had 
sped  and  sped  and  sped.  ...  It  sped  on  wi*:hout 
resting.   .    .    .   She  was  always  busy.   .    .    . 

She  had  sent  Adeletje  upstairs,  to  change  her 
things  at  once,  and  opened  the  door  of  the  drawing- 
room.  ...  It  felt  a  little  chilly,  she  thought;  and, 
while  she  saw  her  mother  sitting  quietly  in  the  con- 
servatory, peering  out  of  doors  from  her  usual  seat, 
she  went  to  the  stove,  moved  the  cinder-drawer  to 
and  fro  to  send  the  ashes  to  the  bottom  and  make 
the  fire  glow  up  behind  the  mica  doors.   .    .    . 

"Aren't  you  cold  out  there,  Mummie?" 

The  old  woman  looked  round  at  the  sound  of 
her  voice.  Constance  went  into  the  conservatory 
and  again  asked : 

"  Aren't  you  cold,  Mummie?  " 

The  old  woman  heard  her  this  time;  and  Con- 
stance stooped  over  her  and  kissed  the  waxen 
forehead. 

"  It's  blowing,"  said  the  old  woman. 

"Yes,  it's  blowing  like  anything!"  said  Con- 
stance.   "  You  don't  feel  cold?  " 

The  old  woman  smiled,  with  her  eyes  in  her 
daughter's. 

"  Won't  you  rather  come  and  sit  inside. 
Mamma?" 

But  the  old  woman  only  smiled  and  said : 

"The  trees  are  waving  from  side  to  side;  and 
just  now  a  branch  fell  .  .-  .  right  in  front  of  the 
window." 

"  Yes.  Harm'll  have  plenty  of  work  to-morrow. 
There  are  branches  lying  all  over  the  place." 

"  It's  blowing,"  said  the  old  woman. 

Constance  went  in,  took  a  shawl  and  put  it  over 
her  mother's  shoulders : 


DR.  ADRIAAN  9 

"  You'll  come  in,  won't  you,  Mamma,  if  you  feel 
cold?" 

And  she  went  back  to  the  drawing-room,  intending 
to  go  upstairs. 

But  voices  sounded  from  the  hall  and  the  door 
was  opened.    It  was  Gerdy  and  Guy: 

*'  Are  you  in,  Auntie?  " 

"Are  you  back  at  last?" 

"Where  have  you  been  all  the  afternoon?" 

"Have  you  been  walking  with  Adele?" 

"  Come,  Auntie,"  said  Guy,  "  give  an  account  of 
yourself!  " 

He  was  a  well-set-up,  fair-haired  boy  of  nineteen, 
tall  and  broad,  with  a  fair  moustache ;  and  she  spoilt 
him  because  he  was  like  his  father.  Really  she 
spoilt  them  all,  each  for  a  different  reason,  but  Guy 
could  do  anything  that  he  pleased  with  her.  He 
now  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  asked  once  more : 

"  Now,  Auntie,  where  have  you  been?  " 

And  she  blushed  like  a  child.  She  did  not  mean 
to  say  where  she  had  been,  but  she  had  not  reckoned 
on  his  attacking  her  like  this : 

"  Why,  nowhere !  "  she  said,  defending  herself. 
"  I've  been  walking  with  Adele.   ..." 

"  No !  "  said  Guy,  firmly.  "  You've  been  to  the 
little  old  lady's." 

"Oh,  no  I" 

"Oh,  yes!" 

"  Come,  boy,  let  me  be.  I  want  to  go  up  and 
change.   .    .    .   Where's  Mamma?" 

"  Mamma's  upstairs,"  said  Gerdy.  "  Are  you 
coming  down  soon  again,  Auntie?  Shall  I  get  tea 
ready?  Shall  I  light  the  lamp?  It's  jolly,  having 
tea  in  a  storm  like  this." 

"  All  right,  dear,  do." 

"  Will  you  come  down  soon?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  at  once.  .    .    . " 


lo  DR.  ADRIAAN 

She  went  upstairs,  up  the  wide,  winding  oak  stair- 
case. .  .  .  Why  did  she  think,  each  time  the  wind 
blew,  of  that  evening  when  she  had  gone  up  like 
that,  across  the  passage,  through  the  rooms,  to  the 
great,  dark  bedstead,  in  which  the  wan  face  of  the 
dying  woman  showed  palely  on  the  pillow?  .  .  . 
Then  as  now  the  heavy  rain  rattled  against  the 
windows  and  the  tall  cabinets  in  the  dark  passage 
creaked  with  those  sudden  sounds  which  old  wood 
makes  and  which  sometimes  moaned  and  rever- 
berated through  the  house.  But  one  scarcely  heard 
them  now,  because  the  house  was  no  longer  silent, 
because  now  there  were  always  voices  buzzing  and 
young  feet  hurrying  in  the  rooms  and  along  the 
passages,  thanks  to  all  the  new  life  that  had  entered 
the  house.  .  .  .  Ten  years,  thought  Constance^ 
while  she  put  on  the  light  in  her  room,  before 
dressing:  was  it  really  ten  years?  .  .  .  Immedi- 
ately after  the  death  of  her  poor  brother  Gerrit — 
poor  Adeline  and  the  children  had  moved  from  their 
house  to  a  cheap  pension — came  the  death  of  old 
Mr.  Van  der  Welcke,  just  as  she.  Van  der  Welcke 
and  Addie,  going  through  Gerrit's  papers,  had  come 
upon  this  letter : 

"Addie,  I  recommend  my  children  to  your  care; 
my  wife  I  recommend  to  yours,  Constance." 

It  was  the  letter  of  a  sick  man,  mentally  and 
physically  sick,  who  already  saw  death's  wings  beat- 
ing before  his  eyes.  And  even  in  that  shabby 
pension  Addie  had  taken  charge  of  the  children,  as 
though  he  were  their  own  young  father;  but,  when 
the  old  gentleman  died  and  both  Van  der  Welcke 
and  Addie  insisted  on  moving  to  Driebergen,  then 
the  boy  had  stepped  forward  boldly  as  the  protector 
of  those  nine  children,  as  the  protector  of  that  poor 
woman  distraught  and  utterly  crushed  by  the  blow. 
.    .    .   Even    now,    while    hurriedly    changing   her 


DR.  ADRIAAN  ii 

dress,  so  as  not  to  keep  them  waiting  too  long  down- 
stairs, Constance  still  heard  her  boy  say,  in  his  calm, 
confident  voice : 

"  Papa  .  .  .  Mamma  ...  we  have  a  big 
house  now,  a  very  big  house.  .  .  .  We  are  rich 
now  .  .  .  and  Aunt  Adeline  has  nothing  .  .  . 
the  children  have  only  a  couple  of  thousand  guilders 
apiece.  .  .  .  They  must  all  come  to  us  now, 
mustn't  they,  all  come  and  live  with  us  at  Drie- 
bergen,  mustn't  they,  Papa   .    .    .    and  Mamma  ?  " 

He  said  nothing  beyond  those  few  simple  words; 
and  his  confident  voice  was  as  quiet  as  though  his 
proposal  spoke  for  itself,  as  though  it  were  quite 
commonplace.   .    .    . 

"  What  is  there  to  make  a  fuss  about?  "  he  had 
asked,  with  wide-open  eyes,  when  she  fell  upon  his 
neck  with  tears  of  emotion  and  kissed  him,  her  heart 
swelling  with  happiness  in  her  child.   .    .    . 

She  had  just  looked  round  anxiously  at  her  hus- 
band, anxious  what  he  would  wish,  what  he  would 
say  to  his  son's  words.  .  .  .  There  were  fewer 
scenes  between  them,  it  was  true,  much  fewer;  but 
still  she  had  thought  to  herself,  what  would  he  say 
to  this?  .  .  .  But  he  had  only  laughed,  burst  out 
laughing,  with  his  young  laugh  like  a  great  boy's 
.  .  .  laughed  at  all  his  son's  great  family:  a  wife 
and  nine  children  whom  Addie  at  sixteen  was  quietly 
taking  unto  himself,  because  his  people  had  money 
now  and  a  big  house.  .  .  .  Since  that  time  Van 
der  Welcke  had  always  chaffed  the  boy  about  his 
nine  children.  And  Addie  answered  his  father's 
chaff  with  that  placid  smile  in  his  eyes  and  on  his 
lips,  as  though  he  were  thinking: 

"  Have  your  joke,  Daddy.  You're  a  good  chap 
after  all!   .    .    ." 

And  Addie  had  interested  himself  in  his  nine 
children  as  calmly  as  if  they  were  not  the  least 


12  DR.  ADRIAAN 

trouble.  .  .  .  Then  came  the  move  to  Driebergen, 
but  Addie  remained  at  the  Hague,  staying  with  Aunt 
Lot,  for  the  two  years  that  he  still  went  to  school. 
He  came  down  each  week-end,  however:  by  the 
husband's  train.  Van  der  Welcke  said,  chafhngly, 
to  join  his  wife  and  children;  and  he  took  a  hand 
in  everything:  in  the  profitable  investment  and 
saving  of  their  two  thousand  guilders  apiece;  in 
their  schooling;  in  the  choice  of  a  governess  for  the 
girls:  he  saved  Aunt  Adeline  all  responsibility;  his 
Saturday  afternoons  and  Sundays  were  filled  with  all 
sorts  of  cares;  he  considered  and  discussed  and  de- 
cided. .  .  .  Moreover,  Granny,  who  was  now 
lonely  and  fallen  into  her  dotage,  could  no  longer  be 
left  to  live  in  her  big  house,  with  no  one  to  look 
after  her;  and  Constance  had  easily  managed  for 
old  Mamma  to  accompany  them  to  Driebergen.  But 
the  old  woman  had  hardly  noticed  the  change:  she 
thought  that  she  was  still  living  in  the  Alexander- 
straat  sometimes,  in  the  summer,  she  would  be 
living  at  Buitenzorg,  in  the  viceregal  palace,  and 
the  children  round  her  went  about  and  talked 
vivaciously  ...  as  she  had  always  known  them  to 
do,  .  .  .  Emilie  had  refused  to  leave  Constance; 
and,  though  she  sometimes  went  to  stay  at  Baern, 
she  really  lived  with  them:  Emilie,  so  grievously 
shattered  in  her  young  life,  so  unable  to  forget 
Henri's  death  that  she  was  as  a  shadow  of  her 
former  self,  pale  and  silent,  mostly  pining  in  her 
room  .  .  .  until  from  sheer  loneliness  she  went 
to  join  the  family-circle  downstairs.   .    .    . 

Ten  years  .  .  .  ten  years  had  sped  like  this, 
sped  like  fleeting  shadows  of  time;  and  yet  how 
much  had  happened!  The  children  growing  up, 
blossoming  into  young  girls  and  sturdy  lads;  Addie 
studying  medicine  at  Amsterdam,  walking  the  hos- 
pitals,   until,    after    passing    his    examination,    the 


DR.  ADRIAAN  13 

young  foster-father  at  last  settled  down  among  them 
all  as  a  doctor,  in  the  great  house  at  Driebergen; 
and  then  that  immense  change  in  their  lives :  his 
marriage,  his  dreadfully  premature  marriage.  .  .  . 
Oh,  that  marriage  of  her  son's!  .  .  .  She  had  had 
to  summon  all  her  deeper  wisdom  and  to  clutch  it 
with  convulsive  hands  ...  in  order  to  approve 
...  to  approve  .  .  .  and  not  for  a  single  mo- 
ment to  let  herself  be  dragged  along  by  all  the 
prejudices  of  the  old  days,  the  prejudices  of  the 
narrow  little  circle  which  she  had  learnt  to  scorn  in 
her  later  life,  the  life  which  had  become  permanent! 
.  .  .  Now  he  was  really  a  husband,  now  he  was 
really  a  father. 

"  Aunt  Constance   ...   do  come !  " 

It  was  Gerdy's  voice;  and  it  fidgeted  her.  They 
were  all  very  nice,  certainly,  but  also  they  were  all 
very  restless;  and  she  was  really  a  woman  for 
loneliness  and  dreams — had  become  so — and  some- 
times felt  a  need  to  be  quite  alone  .  .  .  quite  alone 
...  in  her  room;  to  lie  on  her  sofa  and  think 
.  .  .  above  all  things,  to  thinlc  herself  back  into 
the  years  which  had  sped  and  sped  and  sped  as 
fleeting  shadows  of  time.    .    .    . 

A  tripping  step  came  hastening  up  the  stairs,  fol- 
lowed by  a  tapping  at  the  door: 

"Auntie!  Aunt  Constance.  .  .  .  I've  made  tea; 
and,  if  you  don't  come,  it'll  be  too  strong.   ..." 

She  would  have  liked  to  tell  Gerdy  that  she  did 
not  care  for  that  calling  out  all  over  the  house  and 
through  the  passages:  it  always  jarred  upon  her, 
as  though  the  clear,  girlish  voice  profaned  that 
brown  indoor  atmosphere  of  the  sombre  old  house 
which  was  so  full  of  the  past  ...  as  though  the 
old  people  were  still  living  there  and  might  be 
shocked  by  all  that  youthful  carelessness  and  pre- 
sumption.   But  she  never  did  tell  her. 


14  DR.  ADRIAAN 

"  Yes,  darling,  I'm  coming." 

She  was  ready  now  and  turned  out  the  gas. 
Gerdy  ran  downstairs  again;  and  Constance  found 
the  lamps  lit  in  the  drawing-room  and  Gerdy  very 
busy  with  the  tea-pot  and  tea-cups.  And  Constance 
smiled,  for  there  was  a  sort  of  homely  peace,  in  this 
room,  a  peace  almost  of  happiness,  the  lesser  happi- 
ness which  people  sometimes  find,  for  a  brief 
moment.  Marietje,  the  eldest  of  the  girls,  a 
motherly  little  soul  from  childhood,  had  coaxed 
Grandmamma  into  leaving  the  conservatory,  which 
was  really  too  cold,  had  installed  her  in  the  back 
drawing-room,  where  the  old  woman  now  sat,  with 
her  shawl  round  her,  her  toes  on  the  foot-warmer, 
her  hands  trembling  in  her  lap  and  her  head 
nodding,  as  though  she  knew  all  sorts  of  things  for 
certain.  .  .  .  Always  she  sat  like  that  and  scarcely 
spoke,  only  a  few  words,  quietly  living  away  the 
last  few  years  of  her  life  and  already  looking  at 
the  rest  in  panorama  .  .  .  but  quite  unconscious  of 
her  surroundings.  ...  In  front  of  the  fire,  close 
together,  sat  Adeline  and  Emilie,  both  silent,  but 
filled  with  the  strange  peace  that  reigned  in  both 
of  them,  because  things  around  them  were  so  youth- 
ful and  so  bright.  For  at  this  hour  all  the  young 
people  were  gathered  in  the  drawing-room,  all 
Gerrit's  children,  except  Constant,  who  was  seven- 
teen and  at  a  boarding-school  near  Arnhem,  to 
Gerdy's  great  regret,  for  she  and  he  had  always 
been  together,  two  good  little,  fair-haired  children. 
Marietje  was  twenty-two  now,  had  not  grown  up 
pretty,  was  tall  and  lank,  fair-haired,  really  an 
unattractive  girl,  though  she  had  a  certain  lovable- 
ness  from  always  caring  for  others,  especially  for 
Grandmamma :  she  had  acquired  this  very  early,  as 
the  eldest  sister,  because  her  mother  had  at  once 
and  as  a  matter  of  course  entrusted  her  with  the 


DR.  ADRIAAN  15 

care  of  her  little  brothers  and  sisters.  Adeletje  too 
was  plain  and  in  addition  ailing  and  anything  but 
strong,  with  her  narrow,  shrunk  chest;  and  Con- 
stance often  wondered  that  the  two  elders  had  be- 
come like  that,  because  she  remembered  them  as  the 
two  pretty  little  fair-haired  children  that  they  used 
to  be,  frail,  it  is  true,  but  rosy-cheeked,  sweet  little 
children.  Alex  also  was  there;  and  he  too  often 
surprised  Constance,  when  she  remembered  the 
naughty  rascal  that  he  was,  now  a  boy  of  twenty, 
pale  and  sallow,  with  frightened  blue  eyes,  shy, 
reserved,  with  a  trick  of  giving  a  sudden  glance  of 
terror  which  made  her  anxious,  she  did  not  know 
why.  She  recognized  her  brother  Gerrit  most  in 
Guy,  who  was  tall,  fair  and  broad,  as  Gerrit  had 
been,  but  who  had  always  been  unmanageable,  with 
not  one  serious  thought  in  his  head ;  he  was  nineteen 
years  old  now  and  as  undecided  about  his  future  as 
Alex  himself.  .  .  .  That  was  Constance'  great 
care  and  not  only  hers  but  Addie's  as  well;  and 
Van  der  Welcke  often  chaffed  his  son,  that  it  was 
not  an  unmixed  joy  to  be  the  father  of  nine  children. 
If  Alex  was  gloomy  now,  with  that  strange  look, 
sometimes  of  sudden  fright,  in  his  eyes,  Guy  was 
undoubtedly  attractive,  was  genial,  pleasant,  cheer- 
ful, foolish,  a  great  baby  and  the  favourite  nephew 
of  Van  der  Welcke,  with  whom  he  went  cycling,  as 
Addie  never  had  time  now:  Addie  the  serious  man, 
the  young  doctor  with  an  increasing  practice.  Guy 
called  Van  der  Welcke  Papa;  they  got  on  so  well, 
almost  too  well  together:  Van  der  Welcke,  who 
had  remained  a  child  for  all  his  fifty-one  years 
delighted  in  that  tall,  fair-haired  adopted  son  of 
Addie's;  and,  jealous  as  he  was  of  all  the  earnest- 
ness, the  labour  and  care  displayed  by  Addie,  who 
had  hardly  a  moment  nowadays  to  give  his  father, 


1 6  DR.  ADRIAAN 

he  was  glad  to  have  found  Guy,  as  though  to  show 
Addie : 

"  I've  got  another  friend,  you  know,  and  I  can 
do  without  you  sometimes  I  " 

After  Guy  came  Gerdy,  the  beauty  of  the  family, 
an  exquisitely  pretty  girl  of  eighteen,  who  with  Guy 
was  the  light  and  laughter  of  the  house;  next.  Con- 
stant, away  at  boarding-school.  The  two  younger 
boys,  Jan  and  Piet,  were  fortunately  doing  well  at 
their  lessons,  whereas  little  Klaasje,  twelve  years 
old,  had  remained  very  backward  and  might  have 
been  a  child  of  eight,  at  one  time  dull  and  silent, 
at  another  wantonly  gay,  but  so  silly  that  she  was 
not  yet  able  to  read.  .  .  .  Yes,  she  had  all  of 
them  there,  all  Gerrit's  children;  she  and  Addie 
looked  after  them;  and  poor  Adeline  had  come  to 
take  it  as  a  matter  of  course  and  never  decided 
anythmg  for  herself  and  consulted  Constance  and 
Addie  about  everything.    .    .    . 

The  wind  outside  roared  and  a  violent  rain  beat 
down  upon  the  windows,  as  though  tapping  at  them 
with  furious  angry  fingers.  The  drawn  blinds,  the 
closed  curtains,  the  lighted  lamps,  Gerdy  pouring 
out  the  tea  with  her  pretty  little  ways:  it  all  gave 
Constance,  though  she  felt  tired  and  would  gladly 
have  been  alone  for  once,  a  caress  of  soft,  homely 
satisfaction,  a  velvety  sense  of  being  in  utter 
harmony  with  all  around  her,  even  though  there  was 
so  much  trouble,  not  only  with  the  children,  but  also 
sometimes  no  httle  difficulty  and  misunderstanding 
with  Mathilde,  Addie's  wife.  Where  was  Mathilde 
now?  Where  were  the  two  children?  Gerdy,  fussy 
and  fidgety,  pretending  to  be  very  busy,  with  a  light 
clatter  of  her  tea-things,  had  pushed  an  easy-chair 
nearer  to  the  fireplace,  where  tongues  of  flames  were 
darting.  She  now  gave  Constance  her  cup  of  tea, 
handed  a  plate  of  cakes;  and  Constance  asked: 


DR.  ADRIAAN  17 

"Where's  Mathilde?" 

"  Mathilde  ?   .    .    .   I     don't    know,     but  .    .    . 
shall  I  go  and  look  for  her?  " 

"No,  never  mind.    Where  are  the  children?" 
"  In  the  nursery,  I  expect.    Shall  I  send  for  them 
to  come  down  ?  " 

"  No,  dear,  it  doesn't  matter.  ..." 
And  Gerdy  did  not  insist.  With  the  wind  and  rain 
raging  out  of  doors,  it  was  still  and  peaceful  inside; 
and,  fidgety  though  Gerdy  was,  she  felt  that  peaceful 
stillness  and  valued  it,  valued  it  as  they  all  did.  In 
her  heart  she  hoped  that  Mathilde  would  not  come 
down  before  dinner,  because,  whenever  Mathilde 
did  come  down  at  tea-time,  something  happened,  as 
though  an  imp  were  creeping  in  between  Gerdy's 
nervous  little  fingers :  she  would  break  a  cup  or  upset 
things;  once  indeed  she  had  nearly  set  the  house 
on  fire,  because  she  had  tried  to  blow  out  the 
methylated  spirit  with  a  furious  blast  from  her 
excitable  little  pouting  lips.  ...  It  was  very  cosy 
now:  if  only  Mathilde  would  remain  upstairs  a  little 
longer.  .  .  .  And,  while  the  wind  and  the  rain 
raged  outside,  indoors  there  was  but  the  sound  of 
a  few  gentle  phrases,  uttered  in  the  yellow  circles  of 
the  lamps,  which  Gerdy  had  placed  so  that  they 
shone  with  an  intimate  and  pleasant  cosiness.  .  .  . 
Old  Granny,  over  in  her  corner,  sat  quietly  in  her 
great  arm-chair,  which  was  like  a  throne;  she  did 
not  move,  did  not  speak,  but  was  nevertheless  in  the 
picture,  thought  Gerdy:  that  waxen  face  of  a  very 
old  lady,  framed  in  the  white  hair;  the  woollen  shawl 
over  the  shoulders;  the  motionless  dark  lines  of  the 
gown;  and,  in  the  lap,  the  fine  detail  of  the  fingers, 
quivering  fingers,  but  for  which  she  would  have 
seemed  devoid  of  all  motion.  .  .  .  Near  the  fire, 
Constance  was  talking  with  Mamma  and  Emilie; 
and  Gerdy  did  not  know  why,  but  something  about 


1 8  DR.  ADRIAAN 

those  three,  as  they  sat  talking  together,  made  her 
feel  as  if  she  could  suddenly  have  cried  for  no 
reason,  because  of  a  touch  of  melancholy  that  just 
grazed  against  her,  like  a  trouble  dating  back  to 
former  years  and  things  that  were  long  past.  .  .  . 
Then  Gerdy  made  an  unnecessary  clatter  with  her 
tea-cups  and  spoons  and  could  not  understand  why 
she  was  so  sensitive.  Marie  was  doing  some  needle- 
work and  Alex  was  gloomily  reading  a  book;  but 
Guy  was  playing  backgammon  with  Adeletje,  making 
constant  jokes  in  between:  the  dice  were  rattled  in 
the  boxes  and  dumped  into  the  board;  the  men 
moved  with  a  hard,  wooden  sound  over  the  black 
and  white  points;  the  dice  were  rattled  again  and 
dumped  down  again. 

"  Five-three.   ..." 
*  "  Double-six.    .     .    .    Double-four.    .    .    .    One 
more :  two-three.    ..." 

And  Klaasje  had  come  and  sat  by  Aunt  Constance, 
almost  creeping  into  her  dress,  with  a  very  babyish 
picture-book  in  her  hand.  She  pressed  her  fair- 
haired  little  head  comfortably  in  Auntie's  skirts, 
against  Auntie's  lap  and  had  silently  taken  Auntie's 
arm  and  laid  it  round  her  neck.  Herself  unobserved, 
she  noticed  every  single  thing  that  happened:  Guy 
and  Adele's  backgammon,  Gerdy's  fussing  with  the 
tea-things;  and  she  listened  to  Auntie,  Mamma  and 
Emilie;  but  all  the  time  it  was  as  though  she  were 
outside  that  circle  of  homeliness,  as  though  she  were 
far  away  from  it,  as  though  she  were  hearing  and 
seeing  through  a  haze,  unconsciously,  in  her  slowly 
awakening  little  brains,  the  brains  of  a  backward 
child.  And,  so  as  not  to  be  too  far  away,  she  took 
Aunt  Constance'  hand,  opened  the  palm  with  her 
fingers  and  pushed  her  little  head  under  it:  that 
made  it  seem  as  if  she  were  much  nearer.   .    .    . 

Suddenly,  the  door  opened;  and  everybody  gave 


DR.  ADRIAAN  19 

a  little  start,  soon  recovering,  however:  Mathilde 
had  entered  and  only  Grandmamma,  yonder,  more 
in  the  background  in  her  dark  corner,  had  remained 
motionless,  with  quivering  fingers  in  her  lap,  white 
and  waxen,  trembling  in  the  dark  shadow  of  her 
dress.  .  .  .  But,  near  the  fire,  Constance,  Adeline 
and  Emilie  were  silent  and  remained  sitting,  stiffly, 
Adeline  and  Emilie  without  moving.  Constance 
alone  forced  herself  to  look  round  at  Mathilde; 
Alex  read  on,  nervously  hunching  his  shoulders;  but 
Guy  rattled  his  dice  and  Adeletje  had  a  sudden  flush 
on  her  cheek  and  turned  pale.  .  .  .  And  Gerdy 
was  the  most  nervous  of  all:  she  suddenly  ducked 
down  in  front  of  the  fire  and  began  poking  it 
desperately. 

"  Do  be  careful,  Gerdy !  "  said  Adeline.  "  You'll 
set  us  on  fire,  the  sparks  are  flying  all  over  the 
place!" 

Mathilde  had  sat  down  in  the  arm-chair  next  to 
Constance,  which  made  little  Klaasje  feel  a  bit 
squeezed,  in  between  Auntie  and  Mathilde,  and 
Mathilde's  shadow  fell  across  the  child's  book  and 
prevented  her  from  seeing  the  pictures,  causing  such 
a  suddefi  outburst  of  temper  that,  before  anyone 
could  stop  her,  she  put  out  both  arms  convulsively, 
pushed  with  her  hands  against  Mathilde's  chair  and 
cried : 

"  Go  awayl  " 

So  much  enmity  was  apparent  in  the  child's  voice 
that  they  all  started  again:  only  Grandmamma,  in 
her  corner,  noticed  nothing.  But  Constance  reco- 
vered herself  at  once : 

"  For  shame,  Klaasje !  "  she  said,  in  a  chiding 
tone.  "  You  mustn't  do  that,  you  know !  What 
makes  you  so  naughty?  " 

But  the  child  pushed  against  the  chair  with  such 
force  that  she  pushed  it  aside,  with  Mathilde  in  it: 


ao  DR.  ADRIAAN 

"  Go  away  I  "  she  repeated,  pale  in  the  face,  with 
wide  eyes  starting  from  her  head  in  hatred. 

"Klaasjel"  cried  Constance.  "Stop  that  at 
once !  " 

Her  voice  rang  harsh  and  loud  through  the  room. 
The  child  looked  at  her  in  alarm,  understood  merely 
that  Auntie  was  angry  and  burst  into  loud  sobs. 

"  Oh,  very  well,  I'll  go  and  sit  somewhere  else  1  " 
said  Mathilde,  pretending  indifference. 

She  got  up  and  sat  beside  Emilie. 

"Haven't  you  been  out?"  asked  Emilie,  gently, 
for  the  sake  of  saying  something. 

"Out?  In  this  horrible  weather?  Where  would 
you  have  me  go?"  asked  Mathilde,  coldly.  "No, 
I've  had  two  hours'  sleep.  Gerdy,  have  you  any 
tea  left  for  me?  " 

"  Yes,  certainly,"  said  Gerdy,  in  a  forced  voice. 

She  poked  the  fire  once  more,  fiercely. 

"But,  Gerdy,  mind  what  you're  doing!"  cried 
Adeline,  terrified,  for  the  sparks  were  flying  out  of 
the  hearth. 

Gerdy  bobbed  up  from  among  her  skirts  and 
began  clattering  with  her  tea-tray.  Klaasje  had 
ceased  crying,  had  stopped  the  moment  that 
Mathilde  had  moved  and  was  now  looking  up  at 
Aunt  Constance  and  trying  to  take  her  hand  again. 

"  No,"  said  Constance,  "  you're  naughty." 

"  No-o !  "  whined  the  little  girl,  like  a  very  small 
child.    "  I'm  not  naughty  I  " 

"  Yes,  you  are.  It's  not  at  all  nice  of  you  to 
push  Mathilde  away.  -You  must  never  do  that 
again,  do  you  hear?" 

"  Oh,  let  the  child  be,  Mamma  I  "  said  Mathilde, 
wearily. 

The  child  looked  up  at  Constance  with  such  an 
unhappy  expression  In  her  face  that  Constance  put 
her  hand  on  her  head  again;  and,  at  once  forgetting 


DR.  ADRIAAN  21 

everything,  Klaasje  now  looked  at  her  book  and 
even  hummed  softly  as  she  showed  herself  the 
pictures. 

Gerdy  was  pouring  out  Mathilde's  tea.  There 
it  was  again:  she  had  spilt  the  milk;  the  tea-tray 
was  one  white  puddle !  However,  she  mopped  it 
up  with  a  tea-cloth  and  now  handed  the  cup  to 
Mathilde. 

Mathilde  tasted  it: 

"  Did  you  put  any  sugar  in?  " 

"  Yes,  one  lump." 

"  I  never  take  sugar." 

"Oh!    .    .    .   Shall  I  give  you  another  cup?" 

"  No,  thanks.   .    .    .   Your  tea  is  weak." 

Gerdy's  tea  was  her  pride,  always: 

"  Tea  gets  bitter  after  standing  three  quarters 
of  an  hour,"  she  said,  aggressively,  "  or,  if  you 
pour  water  on  it,  it  gets  weak." 

"  Then  I  must  always  come  three  quarters  of  an 
hour  late,  for  your  tea  is  always  either  bitter  or 
weak." 

"  Then  make  your  own  tea.   ..." 

But  Gerdy  saw  Aunt  Constance  looking  at  her 
and  said  nothing  more. 

"  Mamma,"  asked  Mathilde,  "  do  you  know  when 
Addie  is  coming  back?" 

"No,  dear;  to-morrow,  I  expect,  or  the  next 
day." 

"Haven't  you  had  a  card  from  him?" 

"  No,  dear." 

"  Oh,  I  thought  he  would  have  written  to  you  I 
...  I  might  really  have  gone  with  him  to 
Amsterdam." 

"  He  had  business  to  attend  to.    .    .    ." 

"  Well,  I  shouldn't  have  hindered  him  in  his 
business.   ..." 

She  sat  silent  now  and  indifferent  and  looked  at 


22  DR.  ADRIAAN 

her  watch,  regretting  that  she  had  come  down  too 
early.  She  thought  that  it  was  six  and  that  they 
would  be  having  dinner  at  once.  And  it  was  not 
even  half-past  five  yet.  .  .  .  Should  she  go  up- 
stairs again  for  a  bit?  .  .  .  No,  she  was  there 
now  and  she  would  stay.  .  .  .  She  had  slept  too 
long  that  afternoon.  .  .  .  She  felt  heavy  and 
angry.  .  .  .  What  a  place,  what  a  place,  Drie- 
bergen  in  November !  Not  a  soul  to  talk  to,  except 
three  or  four  antediluvian  families.  .  .  .  When 
was  she  likely  to  see  the  Hague  again?  The  children 
would  be  looked  after  all  right:  there  were  busy- 
bodies  enough  in  the  house  for  that!  .  .  .  And 
she  remained  sitting  beside  Emilie,  without  moving 
or  speaking,  weary,  indifferent  and  heavy  after  her 
long  sleep.  .  .  .  She  knew  it:  as  usual,  her  en- 
trance had  caused  friction.  That  odious  idiot  child, 
pushing  her  chair  away,  with  its  "  Go  away!  "  She 
could  have  boxed  its  ears.  .  .  .  But  she  had  con- 
trolled herself.  Didn't  she  always  control  herself? 
Wasn't  she  always  being  insulted  by  her  husband's 
relatives?  .  .  .  Why  on  earth  had  she  married 
him?  Couldn't  she  have  married  anybody,  at  the 
Hague?  ...  In  her  weary,  heavy  indifference, 
mingled  with  spiteful  rancour,  she  felt  herself  a 
martyr.  .  .  .  Wasn't  she  a  very  handsome  woman? 
Couldn't  she  have  married  anybody,  though  her 
father  was  a  penniless  naval  officer,  though  there 
was  no  money  on  her  mother's  side  either?  .  .  . 
She  was  a  handsome  girl;  and,  from  the  time  when 
she  was  quite  young,  her -one  thought  had  been  to 
make  a  good  match,  first  and  foremost  a  good 
match,  and  to  get  away  from  the  poverty  and  the 
vulgar  crew  that  gathered  in  Papa  and  Mamma's 
house.  .  .  .  Oh,  yes,  she  was  very  fond  of  her 
husband;  but  now  it  was  all  his  fault:  he  .  .  .  he 
was  neglecting  her  I   .    .    .   Wasn't  she  a  martyr? 


DR.  ADRIAAN  23 

Deep  down  within  herself,  no  doubt,  she  knew  that 
she  had  not  married  him  for  himself  alone,  that 
she  had  certainly  thought  it  heavenly,  she,  a  Smeet, 
plain  Mathilde  Smeet,  to  marry  Baron  van  der 
Welcke  .  .  .  plenty  of  money  ...  a  smart 
match  .  .  .  even  though  the  family  no  longer  lived 
in  the  Hague.   .    .    . 

Baroness  van  der  Welcke.  .  .  .  On  her  cards: 
Baroness  van  der  Welcke.  ...  A  coronet  on  her 
handkerchiefs,  a  coat-of-arms  on  her  note-paper: 
oh,  how  delicious,  how  delicious!  .  .  .  What  a 
joy  at  last  to  order  the  gowns  in  Brussels,  to  get  out 
of  the  poverty  of  her  parents'  home,  which  reeked 
of  rancid  butter  and  spilt  paraffin,  to  shake  it  from 
her,  to  plunge  and  drown  it  in  the  past,  that  poverty, 
as  you  drown  a  mangy  dog  in  a  pond.   .    .    . 

Driebergen  .  .  .  well,  yes.  But  it  wouldn't 
always  be  Driebergen.  She  would  back  herself  to 
coax  her  husband  out  of  that  patriarchy,  to  coax 
him  to  the  Hague,  where  he  would  be  the  young, 
fashionable  doctor:  a  fine  house,  smart  acquaint- 
ances, a  box  at  the  Opera,  presentation  at  court, 
Baroness   .    .    .   Baronne  van  der  Welcke.   .    .    . 

She  had  two  children  now,  a  boy  and  a  girl.  It 
was  irresistible ;  and  yet  she  knew  that  she  must  take 
care  and  not  let  the  nurse  have  too  much  of  it: 

"  Geertje,  have  you  washed  the  jonker's  hands? 
...  Geertje,  I  want  the  freule  to  wear  her  white 
frock  to-day?"  ' 

For  she  had  noticed  that  the  others  never  used 
the  words  in  speaking  to  Geertje  or  to  the  maids, 
never  said  jonker  or  freule,  always  just  simply  Con- 
stant and  Henriette,  or  even  Stan  and  Jet;  and  so, 
when  the  others  were  there,  she  copied  them  and 

^  Jonker  is  the  title  borne  by  the  sons  of  Dutch  noblemen  until 
they  come  of  age,  when,  as  a  rule,  they  bear  the  same  title  as 
their  father;  freule  is  the  title  of  all  the  unmarried  daughters. 


24  DR.  ADRIAAN 

said,  "Stan"  and  "Jet";  but  oh,  the  joy,  as  soon 
as  they  were  gone,  of  once  more  blurting  out  the 
titles  to  Geertje,  the  warm  rapture  of  feeling  that 
she  was  not  only  a  baroness  but  the  mother  of  a 
freule  and  a  jonker: 

"Geertje,  has  Freule  Henriette  had  her  milk? 
.  .  .  Geertje,  let  the  jonker  wear  his  new  shoes 
to-day!"    ... 

No,  she  simply  could  not  keep  from  it;  and  yet 
she  had  sense  enough  to  know  and  perception  enough 
to  feel  that  the  others  thought  it  a  mark  of  bad 
breeding  in  her,  to  refer  to  her  babies  of  one  year 
old  and  two  as  freule  and  jonker.  .  .  ,  That  was 
the  worst  of  it,  that  she  had  married  not  only  her 
husband  but  his  whole  family  into  the  bargain:  his 
grandmamma,  his  parents  and-  Aunt  Adeline  with 
her  troops  of  children  whom  Addie — so  silly  of.him, 
because  he  was  so  young — regarded  as  his  own, 
for  whom  it  was  his  duty  to  care.  .  .  .  That  was 
the  worst  of  it;  and  oh,  if  she  had  known  every- 
thing, known  what  a  martyr  she  would  be  in  this 
house,  where  she  never  felt  herself  the  mistress — 
a  victim  to  the  idiot  child's  rude  ways,  a  victim  to 
Gerdy,  who  gave  her  sugar  in  her  tea — if  she  had 
known  everything,  she  might  have  thought  twice 
before  marrying  him  at  all !    .    .    , 

And  yet  she  was  wonderfully  fond  of  Addie, 
might  still  be  very  happy  with  him,  if  he  would  only 
come  back  to  her  .  .  .  and  not  neglect  her,  over 
and  over  again,  for  all  that  crew  of  so-called  adopted 
children  with  which  he  had. burdened  himself.  .  .  . 
Oh,  to  get  him  out  of  it,  out  of  that  suffocating 
family-circle  .  .  .  and  then  to  the  Hague :  her  hus- 
band a  young,  smart  doctor,  she  at  court;  and  then 
see  all  the  old  friends  again  .  .  .  and  Papa  and 
Mamma's  relations  .  .  .  and  perhaps  leave  cards 
on  them  sweetly:  Baronne  van  der  Welckel   .    .    . 


DR.  ADRIAAN  25 

She  was  not  all  vanity :  she  had  plenty  of  common 
sense  besides  and  no  small  portion  of  clear  and 
penetrating  insight.  She  saw  her  own  vanity,  indeed, 
but  preferred  not  to  see  it.  She  would  rather  look 
upon  herself  as  a  martyr  than  as  vain  and  therefore 
saw  herself  in  that  light,  deliberately  thrusting  aside 
her  common  sense;  and  then,  sometimes,  in  an  un- 
happy mood,  she  would  weep  over  her  own  mis- 
fortunes. Her  only  consolation  at  such  times  was 
that  she  was  handsome,  a  young,  handsome  woman, 
and  healthy  and  the  mother  of  two  pretty  little 
children :  a  jonker  and  a  freule. 

She  now  sat  wearily,  with  very  few  words  passing 
among  them  all;  the  dice  in  Adele  and  Guy's  boxes 
rattled  loudly  and  worked  on  Mathilde's  nerves. 

Gerdy  could  stand  it  no  longer :  she  had  run  out 
into  the  hall  and  almost  bumped  against  Van  der 
Welcke,  who  was  just  going  to  the  drawing- 
room. 

"  Hullo,  kiddie !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon.  Uncle !  " 

"  Where  are  you  rushing  off  to?  " 

She  laughed. 

*'  Nowhere,  Uncle.  I  don't  know.  I'm  going  to 
wash  my  hands.  I  upset  the  milk.  .  .  .  There's 
no  tea  left,  Uncle." 

"  That's  all  right,  kiddie,  I  don't  want  any  tea. 
.    .    .   Shall  we  be  having  dinner  soon?  " 

*'  It's  not  six  yet." 

"Anything  from  Addie?" 

"  No,  Uncle." 

"Has   .    .    .   has  Mathilde  come  down?  " 

"  Yes,  Uncle." 

"  I  see.  Well,  I  think  I'll  go  upstairs  again  for 
a  bit." 

"Oh,  don't,  Uncle!" 

"  I  may  as  well." 


26  DR.  ADRIAAN 

"  No,  don't.  Why  should  you  ?  You're  always 
putting  her  on  us  and  clearing  out  yourself  1  " 

*'  I  ?    But  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  her  I  " 

**  She's  your  daughter-in-law." 

"  I  dare  say,  but  I  can't  help  that." 

"  Yes,  you  can." 

"  How  do  you  mean?    How  can  I  help  it?  " 

"  Why,  if  you  had  stopped  Addie  at  the  time 
.    .    .   had  forbidden  it   ...   as  his  father." 

"  You  young  baggage !  Do  you  imagine  that  I 
can  forbid  Addie  anything?  I've  never  been  able 
to  prevent  his  doing  a  thing.  He's  always  done 
what  he  wanted  to,  from  the  time  when  he  was  a 
child." 

"  You  can  help  it." 

"  Can  I  ?  Well,  whether  I  can  help  it  or  not 
I.    .    .    I'm  going  upstairs." 

"  No,  Uncle,  you're  not  to.  You  must  come  in. 
Do  be  nice.  Come  along  for  our  sake.  You're 
fond  of  us,  aren't  you?  You  love  all  Addie's 
adopted  children.  Uncle,  don't  you?" 

"  Yes,  kiddie,  I'm  fond  of  you  all,  though  I've 
lost  Addie  altogether  through  you." 

"  No,  Uncle,  not  altogether." 

"  Well,  what's  the  use  of  sharing  him  with  the 
pack  of  you  ?  " 

"  But  you  can  afford  to  share  him  a  little  bit. 
Tell  me :  you  are  fond  of  us?  " 

"  Of  course  I  am,  you're  a  dear,  jolly  lot.  But 
Mathilde   ..." 

"  What  about  Mathilde,  Uncle?  " 

He  bent  over  her  and  bit  each  word  separately 
into  her  ear: 

"  I — can't — stand — her.  ...  I  hate  her  as  I 
have  never  hated  anybody." 

"  But,  Uncle,  that's  overdoing  it,"  said  Gerdy, 
lapsing  into  reasonableness. 


DR.  ADRIAAN  27 

"Overdoing  it?" 

"  Yes,  she's  not  so  bad  as  all  that.    She  can  be 
very  nice." 

You  think  her  nice,  do  you?    Well,  she's  like 
a  spectre  to  me." 

"  No,  no,  you  mustn't  say  that.    And  she's  Addie's 
wife  and  the  mother  of  his  children." 

"  Look  here,  kiddie,  don't  be  putting  on  such  wise 
airs.    They  don't  suit  you." 

"  But  she  is  the  mother  of  his  children  and  you're 
not  to  be  so  jealous." 

"Ami  jealous?" 

"  Yes,  you're  jealous   ...  of  Mathilde  and  of 
us." 

"  Very  likely.     I  never  see  Addie.     If  I  hadn't 
got  Guy  ..." 

"  Well,  you've  got  Guy.    And  you've  got  Addie 
as  well." 

"  No,  I  haven't.   .    .    .   Do  you  know  when  he's 
coming  back?  " 

"  No,  I  don't.  Uncle.  And  now  come  along  in." 
^  She  drew  Van  der  Welcke  into  the  room  with 
her;  and,  as  usual,  he  went  up  to  the  old  woman 
seated  silently  in  her  corner,  rubbing  his  hands, 
trying  to  speak  a  few  words  to  her.  She  recognized 
him  and  smiled.  .  .  .  The  wind  outside  raged  with 
a  deeper  note.  .  .  .  The  branches  of  the  trees 
swished  along  the  windows,  the  twigs  tapped  at 
them  as  with  fingertips.  .  .  .  And  amid  the  eeri- 
ness  of  it  all  Constance  suddenly  felt  it  very  strange 
that  they  were  all  of  them  there,  all  strangers  in 
the  old,  gloomy  house,  which  had  once  belonged  to 
Henri's  stern  parents.  The  old  woman  had  for- 
given her,  but  the  old  man  had  never  forgiven.  He 
had  died,  his  heart  filled  with  rancour.  And  now 
they  were  all  there,  all  strangers,  except  the  son, 
except  the  grandson;  and  he  was  not  there  at  the 


28  DR.  ADRIAAN 

moment.  .  .  .  They  were  all  strangers:  her 
mother,  in  her  second  childhood,  imagining  herself  at 
the  Hague  and  very  often  at  Buitenzorg;  ^  she  her- 
self and  Gerrit's  widow  and  their  children;  Emilie: 
all,  all  strangers,  all  with  their  manifold  life  and 
ceaseless  bustle  filling  the  once  silent  and  serious 
house.  .  .  .  And  Mathilde,  a  stranger.  .  .  . 
And,  so  strange,  even  Mathilde  and  Addie's  child- 
ren, little  Constant  and  Jetje,  were  two  little 
strangers,  though  they  bore  the  family  name.  .  .  . 
Why  did  she  feel  this?  Perhaps  because  she  still 
considered  that  the  great  gloomy  house  belonged 
to  the  old  man.  It  was  as  though  he  lived  there 
still,  as  though  he  still  walked  outside,  in  the  garden. 
It  was  as  though  the  great,  gloomy  house  was  still 
filled  with  his  rancour  towards  her  and  hers.  .  .  . 
Yes,  she  had  been  living  here  for  ten  years,  but  the 
old  man  still  bore  rancour  because  she  was  there 
and  because  so  many  of  hers  had  come  with  her 
to  the  house  in  which  they  had  no  business,  in  which 
she  herself  was  an  intruder  as  were  all  who  had 
intruded  themselves  along  with  her.  ...  It  was 
a  feeling  which  had  so  often  oppressed  her,  during 
those  ten  years,  and  which  would  always  oppress 
her.  .  .  .  And  she  would  not  utter  it  to  anybody, 
for  Van  der  Welcke  had  given  Addie  free  leave 
to  bring  the  troop  with  him;  and  he  himself  loved 
the  troop.   .    .    . 

Oh,  how  the  angles  between  her  and  her  husband 
had  been  rubbed  smooth  with  the  years,  whether 
they  passed  slow  or  fast!  .  .  .  How  they  had 
learnt  to  put  up  with  each  other !  .  .  .  They  were 
growing  old:  she  fifty-six,  he  a  little  younger;  it 
was  true,  no  affection  had  come  between  them,  but 
so  much  softening  of  all  that  had  once  been  sharp 
and  unkind  between  them,  so  that  they  had  been 

*  The  governor-general's  house  near  Batavia. 


DR.  ADRIAAN  29 

able  to  go  on  living,  in  this  house,  and  together 
with  their  child  performing  the  task  that  seemed  to 
be  laid  upon  them:  looking  after  Gerrit's  child- 
ren!  .    .    . 

And  Adeline  took  it  as  quite  natural;  but  yet 
.  .  .  how  grateful  she  was  to  them !  How  often 
she  told  them  that  she  could  never  have  brought  up 
the  children  alone,  that  she  would  have  had  neither 
the  strength  for  it  nor  the  money!  .  .  .  Gerrit's 
death  had  broken  her.  She  had  always  quietly  done 
her  little  duties  as  a  wife  and  mother,  but  Gerrit's 
death  had  broken  her.  She  had  remained  among 
all  her  children  as  one  who  no  longer  knows.  It 
was  as  if  the  simplicity  of  her  life  had  become 
shrouded  in  a  darkness  wherein  she  wandered  and 
sought,  groping  with  outstretched  hands.  Ah,  if 
Constance  and  Addie  had  not  led  her !    .    .    . 

And  Constance  in  her  turn  was  grateful  to  Van 
der  Welcke,  for  was  it  not  his  house  in  which  she 
lived  with  her  nephews  and  nieces,  was  it  not  with 
his  money,  for  a  great  part,  that  she  brought  up 
those  children?  .  .  .  Oh,  if  the  old  man  would 
only  cease  spreading  that  rancour  around  them, 
filling  the  whole  great  sombre  house  with  it  because 
they  had  intruded,  because  they  were  living  there 
on  his  money,  though  that  money  now  belonged  to 
his  heir!  At  every  guilder  that  Constance  spent  on 
her  swollen  household,  she  felt  the  old  man's  ran- 
cour. And  it  made  her  thriftier  than  she  had  ever 
been  at  the  time  when  she  and  Henri,  though  their 
needs  were  far  from  small,  had  had  to  live  on  a 
few  thousand  guilders  a  year.  Though  she  now 
lived  in  this  big  house,  though  twelve  and  often 
fifteen  of  them  sat  down  to  table,  she  was  com- 
paratively thriftier  in  her  whole  mode  of  life  than 
she  had  ever  been  in  her  little  house  with  her  hus- 
band and  child.   ...   It  was  the  old  man's  money, 


30  DR.  ADRIAAN 

a  large  fortune,  and  it  was  Henri's  money  now,  of 
course,  but  it  was  first  and  foremost  the  old  man's 
money!  .  .  .  The  curtains  in  the  drawing-room 
were  sadly  faded,  but  she  would  not  buy  new,  though 
Van  der  Welcke  himself  had  begged  her  at  least  to 
buy  some  for  the  front  room.  Her  everyday  table 
was  very  simple,  simpler  than  she  had  ever  been 
accustomed  to.  And  this  gave  her  the  remorse  that 
she  was  feeding  Henri,  now  that  he  was  growing 
older,  more  simply  than  she  had  in  his  younger 
days.  And  she  urged  him  daily  to  buy  a  motor- 
car.   .    .    . 

He  was  sensible,  refused  to  do  anything  of  the 
kind.  Buying  the  "  sewing-machine,"  well,  yes,  that 
was  one  big  initial  outlay  .  .  .  but  the  most  ex- 
pensive part  of  it  was  the  upkeep  of  it,  the  chauffeur, 
the  excursions.  He  feared  that,  once  he  possessed 
the  "  machine,"  it  would  become  a  very  costly  joke. 
.  .  .  And  all  those  ten  years,  though  he  had  often 
thought  of  a  car,  he  had  never  bought  the  old 
sewing-machine.  Then  Constance  felt  so  violently 
self-reproachful,  at  using  Henri's  money  for  her 
brother's  children,  that  she  discussed  it  with  Addie. 
Those  discussions  about  the  motor  had  recurred 
regularly  every  year.  Addie  thought  that  Papa  was 
right,  that  it  was  not  the  initial  outlay  that  was  so 
burdensome,  but  all  the  further  expenses.  Then 
again  motor-cars  were  being  so  much  improved 
yearly  that,  when  once  Papa  had  caught  the  fever, 
he  would  get  rid  of  his  sewing-machine  yearly  to 
buy  a  new  and  more  modern  one.  No,  it  would  be 
a  very  expensive  story.  .  .  .  And  Van  der  Welcke 
had  never  bought  his  sewing-machine,  had  barely, 
once  in  a  way,  hired  one.  .  .  .  Constance  felt  a 
lasting  self-reproach  because  of  it.   .    .    . 

They  were  rich  now;  and  yet  .  .  .  what  ivas 
their   fortune,   with   so   many  burdens!     Burdens, 


DR.  ADRIAAN  31 

moreover,  which  were  not  even  the  natural  burdens 
of  one's  own  children  growing  up !  Burdens  of 
Gerrit's  children!  .  .  .  And  so  she  economized 
more  and  more,  wearing  her  gowns  till  they  became 
shiny,  till  Addie  said  that  Mamma  was  losing  all 
her  daintiness  in  her  old  age.  He  had  always  known 
his  mother  as  a  well-dressed  woman  and  now  she 
went  about  in  blouses  that  shone  like  looking-glasses. 
He  used  to  tease  her;  there  was  one  which  he  always 
called  the  looking-glass  blouse.  Constance  laughed 
gaily,  said  she  no  longer  cared  so  much  about 
clothes.  Well  off  though  she  now  was,  she  spent 
upon  her  dress  not  half  of  what  she  used  to  in  the 
old  days.  .  .  .  And  Mathilde,  who  sprang  from 
a  poverty  reeking  of  paraffin  and  rancid  butter, 
Mathilde,  who  would  have  liked  to  be  surrounded 
with  luxury  at  every  moment,  Mathilde  thought  her 
mother-in-law  above  all  things  stingy,  decided  that 
stinginess  was  the  outstanding  feature  of  her  char- 
acter.  .    .    . 


CHAPTER  II 

It  was  six  o'clock.  Constance  and  Marietje  had 
taken  Grandmamma  upstairs,  for  she  no  longer  had 
her  meals  with  the  rest,  but  went  to  bed  very  early 
in  the  evening.  And  they  were  now  in  the  dining- 
room,  sitting  at  the  great  dinner-table:  a  table, 
Constance  considered,  of  strangers — her  brother's 
children — gathered  round  her  husband,  who  alone 
had  any  right  to  live  there,  in  the  old  man's  house, 
and  to  sit  at  his  table.  .  .  .  And  yet  it  seemed 
iquite  natural  that  Emilie  should  be  sitting  there, 
that  Adeline  should  be  sitting  there  with  her  four 
girls,  Marietje,  Adele,  Gerdy  and  Klaasje,  and  her 
two  big  boys,  Alex  and  Guy;  it  seemed  quite  natural 
that,  after  the  soup,  the  parlour-maid  should  set  the 
great  piece  of  beef  in  front  of  Guy  for  Guy  to  carve : 
one  of  the  few  things  that  he  did  well,  as  Van  der 
Welcke  told  him,  without  thinking,  for  there  was 
some  truth  in  the  jibe.  It  was  the  same  simple  fare 
daily:  soup,  a  joint,  green  potatoes,  vegetables  and 
a  sweet,  so  that  Van  der  V^elcke  sometimes  said : 

"  But,  Constance,  how  Dutch  you  have  grown  in 
your  taste !  " 

"  Well,  if  there's  anything  you  fancy,  you  have 
only  to  say  so  I  "  she  would  answer,  gently. 

And  yet  she  was  afraid  that  he  would  name  some- 
thing, some  game  or  poultry,  that  would  be  much 
too  expensive  for  so  large  a  table  and  such  appetites 
as  the  children's:  wasn't  she  spending  more  than 
enough  as  it  was,  with  that  good,  simple  homeliness 
and  wasn't  the  butcher's  bill  absurdly  high,  month 
after  month? 

38 


DR.  ADRIAAN  33 

And  Guy  carved  the  beef  in  fine,  heavy  slices, 
falling  neatly  and  smoothly  one  on  top  of  the  other, 
with  a  dexterity  which  he  remembered  learning  when 
quite  a  small  boy  from  his  father,  when  he  recol- 
lected very  well  indeed  carving  the  meat  in  the 
little  dining-room  in  the  Bankastraat.  .  .  .  That 
was  Guy's  duty,  to  carve  the  meat  neatly;  and 
he  would  have  gone  on  carving  till  it  all  lay  in 
neat  slices  on  the  dish,  if  Constance  had  not  warned 
him: 

"  That  ought  to  do,  Guy." 

The  boy  was  just  handing  the  dish  to  the  maid, 
for  her  to  take  round,  when  a  carriage  drove  intc 
the  front  garden. 

"  Listen !  "  said  Constance. 

"  That  must  be  Addie !  "  exclaimed  Gerdy,  joy- 
ously. 

"  It's  Addie,  it's  Addie !  "  cried  Klaasje. 

"  Yes,  it  must  be  Addie,"  said  Van  der  Welcke. 

There  was  a  loud  ring  at  the  bell;  and  at  the 
same  time  a  key  grated  in  the  latch. 

"  It's  Addie !  "  they  now  all  cried,  with  cheerful, 
expectant  faces,  rejoicing  that  he  was  back. 

And  Gerdy,  in  her  restless  way,  got  up.  Mathilde 
would  have  got  up  too,  but,  finding  Gerdy  before 
her,  she  remained  sitting.  Gerdy's  clear  voice  rang 
in  the  hall: 

"  Addie,  you're  back,  you're  back!  Oh,  but  how 
cold  and  windy  it  is !  " 

The  maids,  likewise  glad,  fussed  about,  three  of 
them  to  one  handbag.  Gerdy  had  left  the  door 
open  and  the  draught  penetrated  to  the  dinner-table. 
But  Addie  was  now  in  the  room;  and  all  their 
radiant  faces  were  raised  to  his.  They  had  done 
without  him  for  five  days.  •  They  had  missed  him 
for  five  days. 

"  Good-evening,  everybody  I  " 


34  DR.  ADRIAAN 

He  flung  off  his  wet  great-coat :  Truitje  *  caught 
it  and  took  it  out  of  the  room.  He  gave  a  nod 
here  and  there,  but  icissed  nobody  and  shook  hands 
with  nobody.  He  looked  tired;  and  his  collar  was 
limp  with  the  rain. 

"Won't  you  go  and  change  first,  Addie?"  asked 
Constance,  smiling  with  content,  because  he  was 
there. 

"  No,  Mamma,  I'd  rather  not.  I'm  hungry. 
Give  me  a  glass  of  wine." 

They  saw  at  once  what  was  the  matter.  He  was 
out  of  humour.  All  their  radiant  faces  fell  immedi- 
ately; and  they  were  silent.  Guy,  who  was  nearest 
to  him,  poured  him  out  a  glass  of  wine,  without  a 
word.  Addie  drank  down  the  wine.  His  eyes 
glanced  up  wearily  from  under  their  lashes;  his 
gestures  were  nervous  and  jerky.  When  Addie  was 
out  of  humour,  they  were  silent,  subduing  the  sound 
of  their  voices  and  the  light  in  their  eyes.  Nobody 
knew  what  to  say.  And  it  cost  Constance  an  effort 
to  ask: 

"  How  were  things  in  Amsterdam?  " 

"  All  right." 

He  answered  coldly,  as  though  begging  her  to 
ask  no  more  questions  about  Amsterdam.  Nobody 
else  asked  anything:  he  would  be  sure  to  tell  what 
there  was  to  tell  later.  They  began  to  talk  among 
one  another  in  constrained  tones.  They  were  sorry 
that  Addie  was  out  of  humour,  but  they  did  not 
take  it  amiss  in  him.  He  must  be  tired;  he  had  had 
a  busy  time.  Yes,  he  must  be  tired.  It  was  not 
only  his  collar :  his  coat'  also  hung  limp  from  his 
shoulders;  his  grey-blue  eyes  were  dull.  Oh,  how 
serious  his  eyes  had  become,  now  that  he  was  a 
man  of  twenty-six !  How  serious  his  forehead  was, 
with  those   two   wrinkles,   above   the  nose,   which 

*  Gertrude,  Gertie. 


DR.  ADRIAAN  35 

seemed  to  unite  with  the  tawny  eyebrows !  In  face 
and  figure  alike  he  was  older  than  his  years,  almost 
too  old,  as  though  bowed  down  with  premature 
cares.  He  stooped  over  his  plate;  and  they  were 
all  struck  by  his  air  of  weary  exhaustion.  What  was 
it  that  had  overstrained  him  so?  He  did  not  speak, 
but  ate  on  in  silence  and  drank  rather  more  wine 
than  was  his  wont.  Alex  looked  at  him  for  a  long 
time,  with  a  touch  of  anxious  surprise.  And  at  last, 
glancing,  almost  in  alarm,  at  their  faces,  he  sud- 
denly perceived  how  forced  and  confused  they  all 
were  in  their  attitudes,  sitting  and  staring  in  front 
of  them  or  into  their  plates — even  his  father,  even 
his  mother — and  he  understood  that  they  sat  and 
stared  like  that  because  he  had  not  returned  in  a 
cheerful  mood,  after  his  five  days'  absence.  He 
had  a  feeling  of  remorse,  did  violence  to  his  fatigue 
and  his  ill-humour,  steadied  his  nerves.  He  smiled 
— a  tired  smile — at  his  mother;  asked  his  wife: 

"  How  are  the  children,  Mathilde?  " 

It  was  at  once  evident  to  them  all,  from  his  tone 
of  addressing  Mathilde,  that  he  was  making  an 
effort  and  no  longer  wished  to  be  out  of  humour 
and  tired.  They  v/ere  thankful  that  he  was  making 
this  obvious  efifort,  because,  with  Addie  gloomy,  a 
gloom  fell  over  all.  Even  Alex  seemed  to  breathe 
again.  And  they  could  none  of  them  bear  it  when 
Mathilde  just  answered,  coolly: 

"  All  right." 

Nevertheless  his  endeavour  succeeded.  He  now 
spoke  to  his  father;  and  Van  der  Welcke  answered 
with  a  jest.  There  was  a  laugh  at  last;  Gerdy  led 
the  outburst,  about  nothing;  the  voices  broke  into 
a  hum.   .    .    . 

After  dinner,  Addie  went  upstairs;  and,  when  he 
had  changed  his  things,  he  found  Mathilde  in  her 
own  sitting-room.     Constant  and  Jetje  had  gone  to 


36  DR.  ADRIAAN 

bed.  Out  of  doors,  the  night  seemed  to  be  wilder 
and  stormier  than  ever;  and  the  house  creaked,  the 
windows  rattled.  Mathilde  sat  staring  before  her, 
her  ears  filled  with  the  sounds  of  the  night.  Never- 
theless she  heard  her  husband  come  in;  but  she  did 
not  move. 

"Tilly  ..." 

There  was  now  an  undoubted  tenderness  in  his 
voice,  in  his  deep,  earnest  voice.  She  was  certainly 
very  fond  of  him,  she  thought,  if  only  he  did  not 
neglect  her.  She  just  raised  her  head  towards  him, 
sideways.  She  was  a  handsome  woman;  and  her 
young,  healthy  blood  seemed  to  give  her  a  com- 
plexion of  milk  and  roses.  Her  features  were  not 
delicate,  but  they  were  pure;  her  eyes  were  gold- 
grey  and  large,  clear  and  bright;  her  hair  had  a 
natural  wave  in  it  and  was  almost  too  heavily  coiled. 
Beneath  her  black  silk  blouse  her  bust  was  heavy, 
with  a  low  breast  and  a  naturally  wide  waist  too 
tightly  laced.  She  had  the  full,  spacious  form  of 
a  young  and  healthy  woman  and  lacked  all  the 
morbid  distinction  of  finer  breeding.  Her  eyes 
seemed  to  stare  at  a  vision  of  physical  delight;  her 
lips  seemed  ready  to  salute  that  delight;  the  grip 
of  her  large  hands  was  greedy  and  decisive.  Her 
foot,  in  its  substantial  shoe,  was  large,  too  large  for 
a  woman  of  fashion.  Nor  was  she  that:  she  was 
rather  a  woman  of  health.  She  had  no  delicacy 
of  wit:  she  had  rather  common  sense;  and  the  only 
morbid  part  of  her  intelligence  was  an  irrepressible 
vanity.  She  had  no  delicate  taste :  she  wore  a  simple 
black  blouse  and  a  black  skirt,  both  from  Brussels; 
and  yet  there  was  a  coarse  line  and  a  heavy  fold  in 
both.  The  brilliant  on  her  finger  gleamed  inso- 
lently, white  and  hard.  It  was  very  strange,  but 
she  saw  this  herself.  Her  mamma-in-law  had  given 
her  that  brilliant  during  her  engagement,  out  of  her 


DR.  ADRIAAN  37 

own  jewels,  because  she  had  once  admired  the  ring 
on  Constance's  finger,  where  the  stone  seemed  to 
throw  out  sparks  of  fire.    .    .    . 

"Tilly   .    .    ." 

She  smiled  at  him  now,  made  him  come  and  sit 
beside  her.  Twenty-six  years  of  age,  a  young  hus- 
band and  father,  he  looked  quite  ten  years  older, 
had  aged  more  particularly,  she  thought,  during  the 
three  years  of  his  marriage.  Now,  however,  that 
he  had  washed  and  changed,  now  that  he  no  longer 
looked  tired  and  wet,  now  that  he  was  laughing 
under  his  fair  moustache,  now  that  his  grey-blue 
eyes  were  filled  with  laughing  kindness,  now  his 
aging  no  longer  struck  her  so  much;  and  she  knew 
him  again  and  he  was  hers  again,  in  this  one  moment 
when  her  husband  and  she  were  alone.    .    .    . 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said.  "  How  have  you  been 
getting  on   .    .    .   these  five  days?  " 

She  felt  a  kindly  affection  for  him;  and  she  loved 
this  in  him.  She  let  her  hand  remain  in  his  two 
hands;  she  allowed  him  to  kiss  her  and  returned 
his  kiss.  And  she  answered  lazily,  with  a  move- 
ment of  her  shoulders : 

"How  have  I  been  getting  on?  Oh,  as 
usual!   ..." 

"You  mean,  all  right?" 

"  Yes,  quite  all  right." 

"  I  believe,  Tilly  ..." 

"What?" 

"  That  you're  telling  a  fib.  Your  voice  is  very 
abrupt." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  gave  her  little 
laugh,  which  meant  that  she  couldn't  help  it. 

"  You  ought  to  talk  candidly  to  me  for  once,"  he 
said. 

"Yes,"  she  answered;  and  her  tone  was  more 
intimate.    "  We  don't  do  that  too  often." 


38  DR.  ADRIAAN 

"  I'm  very  busy  sometimes." 

"  You're  always  busy.  Why  did  you  have  to  go 
to  Amsterdam  suddenly?  I  hardly  know  the 
reason." 

"  It  was  for  Alex." 

*'  And  did  you  succeed?  " 

'•  Possibly." 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  asking  to  knowl  "  she  said,  at  once, 
in  a  tone  of  piqued  indifference  which  he  appeared 
not  to  notice. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  things  over,  Tilly.   ..." 

"Thinking  things  over?    When?" 

"  At  Amsterdam." 

"  I  thought  you  were  so  busy!  " 

"  I  used  to  think  in  my  room,  in  the  evenings. 
About  you." 

"About  me?" 

"  Yes.  Tell  me,  wouldn't  you  rather  have  your 
own  house?  You  might  feel  happier  if  you  had  a 
home  of  your  own." 

She  was  silent. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  say?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  Of  course  I  would  rather  have  a  home  of  my 
own.  I  told  you  so  at  once  .  .  .  when  we  mar- 
ried." 

"  Yes,  but  at  that  time   ..." 

"Well?" 

"  I  didn't  see  it  so  clearly  .  .  .  that  you  would 
not  be  happy  in  this  house." 

"Oh   .    .    .   happy?    I  don't  know." 

"  You're  not  happy  here.^' 

"  I  would  certainly  rather  have  my  own  house 
...   at  the  Hague." 

"  At  the  Hague.  Very  well.  But,  if  we  move 
to  the  Hague,  Tilly,  we  shall  have  to  be  very 
economical." 


DR.  ADRIAAN  39 

"  Very  economical?  " 

"  Well,  of  course !    I'm  not  making  much  yet." 

"  And  you're  always  busy !  " 

"Yes   .    .    ."    . 

"  You  have  patients  here,  at  Driebergen,  and  all 
around." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh,  "but  they  don't 
pay  me." 

"  No." 

"Why  not?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders : 

"  Because  they  can't." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  also: 

"  It's  very  noble  of  you,  Addie.  .  .  .  But  we 
have  to  live  too." 

"Yes.    But  don't  we  live?" 

"  If  we  moved  to  the  Hague,  though   .    .    .  ?" 

"  We  should  have  to  be  very  economical." 

"  You're  well  off." 

"  I'm  not  well  off.  .  .  .  Tilly,  you  know  I'm 
not.  Papa  has  a  pretty  considerable  fortune.  But 
he  has  a  good  many  calls.   ..." 

"  Calls !   .    .    .   why,  you're  his  only  son !  " 

"  He  might  give  us  an  allowance  .  .  .  until  I 
was  making  more  money.  ,  .  .  But  even  then  we 
should  have  to  be  economical  .  .  .  and  live  in  a 
very  small  house." 

She  clasped  her  large,  white  hands : 

"  I'm  sick  of  economy,"  she  said,  coarsely,  "  sick 
and  tired  of  poverty.  I've  never  had  anything  in 
my  life  but  poverty,  decent,  genteel  poverty.  I 
would  rather  be  a  beggar,  simply;  I'd  rather  be  a 
poor  girl  in  the  street  than  go  through  decent,  gen- 
teel poverty  again." 

"  It  wouldn't  be  so  bad  as  all  that." 

"  Not  so  bad,  perhaps,  but  still  a  small  house, 
with  one  servant,  and  seeing  how  far  a  pound  of 


40  DR.  ADRIAAN 

meat  will  go  and  watching  every  half-penny  that  the 
servant  spends.  No,  thank  you,  it's  not  good 
enough." 

"Then,  Tilly   ..." 

"What  then?" 

"  Then  I  see  no  chance  ...  of  moving  to  the 
Hague." 

"  Well,"  she  said  in  her  dull  tone  of  piqued  indif- 
ference, "  then  let's  stay  here." 

"  But  you're  not  happy  here." 

"Oh,  what  does  my  happiness  matter?" 

"  I  should  like  to  see  you  happy." 

"  Why,  you  no  longer  love  me !  " 

"  I  do  love  you,  Tilly,  very  much." 

"  No,  you  don't  love  me.  How  could  you  love 
me?  Do  you  think  I  don't  see  it?  You  love  all  of 
them  here,  all  your  relations :  you  don't  love  me. 
You  hardly  love  your  children."  ' 

"Tilly!" 

"  No,  you  hardly  love  your  own  children." 

"  Tilly,  you've  no  right  to  speak  like  that.  Be- 
cause I'm  fond  of  Uncle  Gerrit's  children,  is  that 
any  reason  why  I  shouldn't  be  fond  of  you  .  .  . 
and  of  Stan  and  little  Jet?  " 

She  had  risen,  tremulously.  She  looked  into  his 
grave  eyes,  which  gazed  at  her  long  and  almost 
sorrowfully,  from  under  his  heavily-knitted,  tawny 
eyebrows.  She  had  intended  to  overwhelm  him  with 
reproaches;  but  on  the  contrary  she  threw  herself 
on  his  breast,  with  her  arms  around  his  neck: 

"Tell  me  that  you  love. me!  "  she  cried,  with  a 
great  sob. 

"  I  love  you,  Tilly,  you  know  I  love  you." 

He  kissed  her.  But  she  heard  it  through  his 
voice,  she  felt  it  through  his  kiss:  he  no  longer 
loved  her.  All  at  once,  suddenly,  the  certainty  of  it 
poured  a  coldness  as  of  ice  into  her  soul.    She  held 


DR.  ADRIAAN  41 

him  away  from  her  for  a  moment,  with  her  hand 
against  his  shoulders.  She  stared  at  him.  .  .  . 
He  also  looked  at  her,  with  his  sorrowful  eyes,  and 
he  spoke,  but  she  did  not  hear  what.  .  .  .  Then 
she  heard  him  say: 

"Are  you  coming  downstairs,  Tilly?  They  will 
be  wondering  what's  become  of  us !  " 

*'  No,"  she  said,  calmly.  "  I  have  a  headache 
and  I'm  going  to  bed." 

"Won't  you  come  down?" 

"  No." 

"  Do,  Tilly !  Please  come  down  with  me.  I  shall 
be  so  glad  if  you  will." 

"  I'd  rather  not,"  she  said,  softly  and  calmly. 
"  I  really  have  a  headache  .  .  .  and  I'm  going  to 
bed." 

She  looked  at  him  gravely,  for  one  more  mo- 
ment, and  he  also  looked  at  her,  very  gravely  and 
very  sorrowfully.  But  their  souls  did  not  come  into 
contact.    She  kissed  him  first: 

"  Good-night,"  she  said,  softly. 

He  said  nothing  more,  but  he  returned  her  kiss, 
very  fondly.  Then  he  left  the  room;  and  she  heard 
his  steps  creaking  softly  on  the  stairs. 

"  Dear  God,"  he  thought,  "  how  am  I  to  find  her  I 
How  am  I  to  find  her  again !   .    .    . " 


CHAPTER  III 

Addie  remained  in  the  drawing-room  for  only  a 
second : 

"  I'll  go  and  keep  Papa  company  for  a  bit,"  he 
said. 

And  he  went  and  looked  up  his  father  in  his 
room,  where  Van  der  Welcke  always  smoked  his 
three  or  four  cigarettes  after  dinner,  alone. 

"  Daddy,  am  I  disturbing  you?  " 

"Disturbing  me,  my  dear  fellow?  Do  you 
imagine  that  you  ever  disturb  me?  No,  you  never 
disturb  me.  ...  At  least,  I  can  count  the  times 
when  you  have  disturbed  me." 

"  But  I've  come  to  disturb  you  this  time.   ..." 

"  Well,  that's  a  bit  of  luck." 

"And  have  a  talk  with  you." 

"  Good.    That  doesn't  happen  often." 

Addie  knitted  his  brows,  which  gave  him  an  ex- 
pression of  sadness : 

"  Don't  be  satirical.  Father.    How  can  I  help  it?  " 

"  I'm  not  being  satirical,  my  dear  boy.  I  accept 
the  inevitable.  I've  been  accepting  it  now  for  five 
days.  After  dinner  I  would  come  up  here  quietly 
and  smoke  my  cigarettes  in  utter  resignation.  Of 
those  five  days,  two  have  been  windy  and  three  have 
been  stormy.  And  I  sat  here  calmly  and  listened  to 
it  all." 

"  And  .    .    .  ?  " 

"  And  .  .  .  that's  all.  Life's  an  insipid  busi- 
ness; and  the  older  I  grow  the  more  insipid  I  find  it. 
I  don't  philosophize  about  it  very  much.  I  never 
did,  you  know.   .    .    .   But  I  do  sometimes  think, 

42 


DR.  ADRIAAN  43 

nowadays,  what  a  rotten  thing  life  is,  with  all  its 
changes.  At  least,  I  should  have  been  glad  to  let  it 
remain  as  it  was.   ..." 

"How,  Daddy?" 

"  As  it  used  to  be  when  you  were  a  small  boy.  I 
have  gradually  come  to  lose  you  entirely  .  .  .  and 
I  have  so  little,  apart  from  you." 

"  Oh,  nonsense  1  " 

"  Yes,  I  have  gradually  come  to  lose  you  en- 
tirely. ...  In  the  old  days,  when  you  were  a 
schoolboy  .  .  .  then  you  belonged  to  me.  Then 
came  your  time  at  college:  that  took  a  bit  of  you 
from  me.  Your  eighteen  months  in  the  hospitals  at 
Amsterdam :  I  never  saw  you.  Your  year,  after 
that,  in  Vienna:  I  never  saw  you.  I  was  lucky  if 
I  got  a  letter  now  and  again.  Then  you  came  back, 
took  your  degree.  And  then  .  .  .  then  you  went 
and  got  married." 

"  And  we  have  always  remained  with  you." 

"  And  every  year  I  lost  a  bit  more  of  you.  You 
no  longer  belong  to  me.  There  was  a  time  when  I 
used  to  share  you  with  Mamma ;  and  you  remember 
that  I  used  to  find  that  pretty  hard  occasionally. 
But  now  I  share  you   .    .    .   with  all  the  world." 

"  Not  with  all  the  world,  Daddy." 

"Well,  with  half  the  world  then.  With  your 
wife,  with  Aunt  Adeline  and  your  nine  adopted 
children,  with  all  your  outside  interests." 

"  Those  are  my  patients." 

"  You  have  a  great  many  of  them  .  .  .  for  a 
young  doctor.    And   ..." 

"Well,  Daddy?" 

"  Nothing,  old  boy.  I  only  wanted  to  give  you 
a  piece  of  advice ;  but  who  am  /  to  advise  youf  " 

"Why  not,  Daddy?" 

"  I  don't  count." 

"Now  then!" 


44  DR.  ADRIAAN 

"  I  never  have  counted.  You  used  to  manage  me; 
and  I  just  did  what  you  told  me  to." 

"  Give  me  your  advice  now.  Haven't  we  always 
been  pals?  " 

"  Yes,  but  you  were  the  one  with  the  head." 

*'  There's  not  much  head  about  me  just  now. 
Give  me  your  advice,  Daddy." 

"  You  won't  take  it  from  me." 

"  Out  with  it,  all  the  same !  " 

"  Well,  my  boy,  listen  to  me :  keep  something  of 
your  life  for  yourself." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  You're  giving  it  all  away.  I  don't  believe  it 
can  be  done.  I  believe  a  man  to  stand  as  much  in 
need  of  a  healthy  egoism  as  of  bread  and  water." 

"  I  should  say  that  I  was  egoist  enough." 

"  No,  you're  not.  You  keep  nothing  for  your- 
self. You'll  think  it  funny  of  me  that  /  should  talk 
to  you  like  this;  but,  you  see,  the  older  I  grow  and 
the  more  cigarettes  I  smoke  the  more  I  notice 
that  ..." 

"That  what?" 

"  That  both  your  parents  have  never — consider- 
ing your  character — taken  your  own  happiness  into 
account:  Mamma  no  more  than  I." 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you." 

*'  It  is  so,  all  the  same.  The  years  which  you 
spent  as  a  child  between  your  two  parents  made  you 
an  altruist  and  made  your  altruism  run  away  with 
you." 

Addie  smiled  and  gazed  at  his  father. 

"W^ell?    What  are  you  looking  at  me  for?" 

"  I'm  looking  at  you.  Father  .  .  .  because  I'm 
amused  to  see  you  so  utterly  wide  of  the  mark." 

''Why?" 

**  I  may  have  had  a  touch  of  altruism  in  me,  but 
of  late  years   ..." 


DR.  ADRIAAN  45 

"What?" 

"  I  have  thought  a  great  deal  of  myself.  When 
I  got  married  ...  I  was  seeking  my  own  happi- 
ness. I  wanted  to  find  happiness  for  myself  in  my 
wife  and  children,  for  my  own  self  .  .  .  and  hang 
the  rest!  " 

'*  Ah,  was  that  your  idea?  Well,  it  was  a  healthy 
idea  too." 

"A  healthy  idea,  wasn't  it?  So  you  were  wide 
of  the  mark,  Daddy.  I  wanted  a  wife  who  belonged 
to  me,  children  who  belonged  to  me:  all  forming 
one  great  happiness  for  myself." 

Van  der  Welcke  wreathed  himself  in  clouds  of 
smoke. 

"  So  you  see,  Daddy,  the  advice  which  you  gave 
me  I  followed  of  my  own  accord." 

"  Yes,  old  boy,  I  see." 

"That's  so,  isn't  it?" 

"  Yes.    Well,  that's  all  right,  then." 

"  I'm  glad  to  have  had  a  talk  with  you.  But  new 
I  must  talk  not  about  myself  but  about  something 
else." 

"  Of  course.  You  can  never  talk  for  more  than 
two  seconds  about  yourself.  However,  you're  right, 
I  know  now;  and  you  had  already  followed  my 
advice  ...  of  your  own  accord.  What  else  did 
you  want  to  talk  about?  " 

"  Daddy,  I've  been  to  Amsterdam." 

"  For  Alex.  Well,  is  that  settled  .  .  .  about 
the  Merchants'  School?" 

"  Yes,  he  can  go  up  for  his  examination.  But 
afterwards   ..." 

"Well?" 

"  I  went  to  Haarlem.    Near  Haarlem." 

"  What  took  you  there?  " 

"  Someone  sent  for  me." 

"A  patient?" 


46  DR.  ADRIAAN 

"  A  dying  man." 

"Who?" 

Suddenly,  from  the  look  in  Addie's  face,  Van  der 
Welcke  understood.  He  went  very  pale,  rose  from 
his  chair  and  stared  in  consternation  into  his  son's 
sad  eyes : 

"  Addie !  "  he  exclaimed,  in  a  hoarse  voice.  "  Ad- 
die,  tell  me  what  you  mean !  I  had  no  idea  .  .  . 
that  you  knew  anyone  near  Haarlem!  I  didn't 
know   .    .    .   that  you  had  a  patient  there !  " 

He  seemed  to  be  trying  to  deceive  himself  with 
his  own  words,  for  he  already  understood.  And 
Addie  knew  by  his  father's  eyes  and  his  father's 
voice  that  he  understood;  and,  speaking  slowly,  in 
a  gentle  voice,  Addie  explained,  as  though  the  name 
had  already  been  mentioned  between  them: 

"  Six  days  ago  ...  I  received  a  letter  .  .  . 
written  in  his  own  hand,  a  clear,  firm  hand.  .  .  . 
The  letter  was  quite  short:  here  it  is." 

He  felt  for  his  pocket-book,  took  out  the  letter 
and  handed  it  to  his  father.    Van  der  Welcke  read : 

"Dear  Sir, 

"  Though  I  have  not  the  pleasure  of  your  per- 
sonal acquaintance,  I  should  consider  it  a  great  privi- 
lege if  I  might  see  you  and  speak  to  you  here  at  an 
early  date.  I  hope  that  you  will  not  refuse  the 
request  of  a  very  old  man,  whose  days  are  drawing 
to  an  end. 

"  Yours  sincerely, 

"  De  Staff elaer." 

Addie  rose,  for  his  father  was  shaking  all  over; 
the  letter  was  fluttering  in  his  fingers. 
"  Daddy,  pull  yourself  together." 
"  Addie,  Addie,  tell  me,  did  you  see  him?  " 
"  Yes,  I  saw  him.    I  was  with  him  twice." 


DR.  ADRIAAN  47 

•'And  .    .    .   and  is  he  dying?  " 
"  He's  dead.    He  died  this  morning." 
"He's  dead?" 
"  Yes,  Daddy,  he's  dead." 
"  Did  you   .    .    .   did  you  speak  to  him?  " 
"  Yes   ...   I  spoke  to  him.    He  was  very  clear 
in  his  head:  a  clear-headed  old  man,   for  all  his 
ninety-two  years.     When  I  arrived,  he  pressed  my 
hand  very  kindly  and  nicely,  made  me  sit  beside  his 
chair.    He  was  sitting  up,  in  his  chair.    That's  how 
he  died,  in  his  chair,  passing  away  very  peacefully. 
He  told  me  that  he  had  wanted  to  see  me   .    .    . 
because  I  was  the  son    ...   of  my  mother.   .    .    . 
He  asked  after  Mamma  and  made  me  describe  how 
you  two  had  lived   ...   at  Brussels.     I  told  him 
about  my  childhood.     I  told  him  of  my  later  life. 
He  took  a  strange  interest  in  everything   .    .    .   and 
then   .    .    .   then  he  asked  after  you,  how  you  had 
been,  how  you  were   .    .    .   asked  if  I  was  attached 
to  my  parents  .    .    .  asked  after  my  prospects  .    .    . 
asked  after  my  aims  in  life.   ...   I  was  afraid  of 
tiring  him  and  tried  to  get  up,  but  he  put  out  his 
hand  and  made  me  sit  down  again :  '  Go  on,  go  on 
telling  me  things,'  he  said.     I  told  him  about  the 
Hague,  told  him  how  we  were  now  living  at  Drie- 
bergen.    He  knew  that  Uncle  Gerrit's  children  were 
here.     He  seemed  to  have  heard  about  us.    .    .    . 
When  I  went  away,  he  said,  '  Doctor,  may  the  old 
man  give  you   something?'     And  he   handed  me 
three  thousand  guilders :  '  You  must  have  patients. 
Doctor,  who  can't  afford  things,'  he  said.     *  You 
won't  refuse  it,  will  you  ? '     I  thought  it  right  to 
accept  the  money.     It  was  an  obvious  pleasure  to 
him  to  give  it  me.   .    .    .   Next  day — that  was  this 
morning,   when   I   went   again — he   was  much   less 
lucid.     He  just  mentioned  Mamma;  and,  when  he 
spoke  of  her,  I  could  see  that  he  imagined  that  she 


48  DR.  ADRIAAN 

was  still  quite  young.  Still  he  understood  that  I 
was  her  son.  .  .  .  Then  he  gave  me  his  hand  and 
said,  '  I  am  glad,  Doctor,  to  have  seen  you.  .  .  . 
Give  my  regards  to  your  mother  .  .  .  the  old 
man's  regards  .  .  .  and  to  your  father  too.' 
Then  I  went  away;  and,  when  I  called  again  in  an 
hour  to  enquire,  the  butler  told  me  .  .  .  that  he 
was  dead.   ..." 

Van  der  Welcke  sat  in  his  chair,  motionless  and 
bent,  with  his  hands  hanging  between  his  knees.  He 
stared  in  front  of  him  and  did  not  speak.  The  past, 
the  times  of  bygone  days  rose  tempestuously  before 
his  eyes.  It  was  as  though  that  which  had  once 
existed  never  perished,  as  though  nothing  could  ever 
change  in  what  had  once  begun.  .  .  .  Life  slid 
on  unbrokenly.  .  .  .  His  eyes  saw  Rome,  an  old 
palace,  a  lofty  room  .  .  .  Constance  fleeing  down 
a  back  stair,  himself  standing  like  a  thief  in  the 
presence  of  the  old  man  .  .  .  the  good  old  man, 
who  had  been  like  a  father  to  him.  .  .  .  Now 
.  .  .  now  the  old  man  was  dead.  .  .  .  And 
Addle  had  been  at  his  death-bed!  And  Van  der 
Welcke's  son  was  bringing  the  dying  man's  message, 
his  last  message,  his  forgiveness !   .    .    . 

Van  der  Welcke  stared  and  continued  to  stare, 
motionless;  and  a  sob  welled  up  in  his  breast.  His 
eyes,  which  were  like  a  child's  with  their  ever  youth- 
ful glance,  filled  with  great  tears.  Nevertheless, 
he  controlled  himself,  remained  calm;  and  all  that 
he  said,  quite  calmly,  was: 

"  Addie,  does  Mamma   .,    .    .  know?" 

"  No,  Daddy.  ...  I  wanted  to  tell  you  first 
.  .  .  and  to  bring  you  .  .  .  the  old  man's  mes- 
sage and   ..." 

"Yes?" 

"  His  forgiveness.   ..." 

Van  der  Welcke's  head  drooped  lower  still;  and 


DR.  ADRIAAN  49 

the  great  tears  fell  to  the  floor.  Addie  now  rose 
and  went  up  to  his  father: 

"Daddy   ..." 

"  My  boy  .    .    .  my  boy !  " 

"  The  old  man  sent  you  this  message :  *  Tell  your 
father  .  .  .  that  I  forgive  him  .  .  .  and  tell 
your  mother  so    .    .    .   too.   .    .    . ' " 

Addie  flung  his  arm  round  his  father's  neck;  and 
Van  der  Welcke  now  sobbed  on  his  son's  breast. 
He  could  restrain  himself  no  longer.  He  gave  one 
great,  loud  sob,  clutching  hold  of  his  own  son,  like 
a  child.  .  .  .  Had  it  not  always  been  like  that, 
the  child  the  consoler  of  his  father?  The  son  now 
his  mother's  consoler? 

The  emotion  lasted  but  a  moment,  because  of  the 
calmness  of  older  years;  but  it  was  a  moment  full 
as  the  whole  soul  and  the  whole  life  of  a  small 
being.  The  older  man  felt  all  his  soul,  saw  all  his 
small  life.  Was  that  coming  for  him:  forgiveness? 
Was  it  coming  to  him  through  his  son  ?  Because  of 
his  son,  perhaps  .  .  .  mysteriously,  for  some  mys- 
terious law  and  mystic  reason?  .  .  .  He  felt  it 
.  .  .  as  an  enlightening  surprise  .  .  .  though  he 
merely  said,  after  a  pause: 

"  I'm  glad,  Addie  .  .  .  that  you  went.  And 
now  you  must  tell   .    .    .   Mamma." 

"  I'll  tell  her  this  very  evening,  Father." 

"  This  evening?  " 

"  Yes,  I  can't  wait  any  longer.  Those  last  words 
.  .  .  are  lying  like  a  weight  ...  on  my  heart: 
I  must  hand  them  on   .    .    . " 

"To  Mamma  also   ..." 

"To  feel  relieved.   ..." 

"  Then  go  to  her,"  said  Van  der  Welcke,  very 
calmly. 

And  he  remained  sitting  in  his  chair.  His  fingers 
mechanically  rolled  a  fresh  cigarette.     But  in  his 


50  DR.  ADRIAAN 

eyes,  which  had  always  remained  young,  there  was 
seen  a  faint  inflexion,  of  surprise,  as  though  for 
the  first  time  they  had  looked  into  the  deeper  life. 
His  son  kissed  him,  gently,  went  away,  closed  the 
door.  And  Van  der  Welcke's  fingers  continued  to 
fumble  with  a  newly-rolled  cigarette.  He  forgot  to 
light  it.    He  stared  in  front  of  him.   .    .    . 

Outside  the  house  the  wind  blew  moaning  along 
the  walls  and  drew  its  tapping  fingers  along  every 
window,  as  along  a  vast  keyboard.   .    .    . 

Forgiveness,  the  very  possibility  of  it,  whirled 
before  his  staring  eyes.   .    .    . 


CHAPTER  IV 

When  Addle  came  downstairs  he  met  Constance. 
A  gas-jet  was  burning  with  a  small  flame  in  the 
brown  dusk  of  the  oak  wainscoting.  She  was  obvi- 
ously tired: 

"  I  am  going  to  my  room,"  she  said. 

"  I  was  looking  for  you,  Mummy." 

"  Come  along  with  me  then." 

"  Perhaps  you're  tired,  perhaps  you  want  to  rest 
;.    .    .   and  sleep." 

"  I  can  rest  as  well  when  you  are  with  me  as 
when  I  am  alone.    Come." 

She  put  out  her  hand,  took  his  and  drew  him 
gently  up  the  stairs.  She  turned  up  the  gas  in  her 
sitting-room.  She  changed  quickly  into  a  tea-gown; 
and  he  thought  that  he  would  not  speak  to  her  that 
evening,  because  she  really  seemed  very  weary. 
.  .  .  While  she  was  busy  in  her  dressing-room,  he 
looked  round  him  and  felt  the  years  of  his  boyhood. 
The  room  was  so  exact  a  copy  of  the  little  drawing- 
room  in  the  Kerkhoflaan  that  the  past  always  came 
back  to  him  here.  And  it  brought  with  it  the 
strange  melancholy  of  all  things  that  had  been  and 
no  longer  were.   .    .    . 

"Hark  how  it's  blowing!"  she  said.  "It  re- 
minds me   ..." 

"Of  what.  Mamma?" 

"  Of  an  evening,  more  than  ten  years  ago,  at  the 
Hague.  It  was  after  the  death  of  Grandmamma 
van  der  Welcke.  I  had  returned  from  here,  from 
the  room  which  is  now  Papa's  bedroom.  I  had  been 
to  Grandmamma   .    .    .   and  it  was  stormy  weather, 

51 


52  DR.  ADRIAAN 

like  to-day,  and,  when  I  got  home,  I  was  fanciful 
and  frightened:  the  wind  seemed  to  me  so  gigantic 
and  I  ...  I  was  so  small.  .  .  .  Then  you  came 
home  .  .  .  and  I  was  so  frightened  ...  I  crept 
into  your  arms  ...  I  looked  into  your  eyes, 
Addie.  ...  In  those  days,  it  was  very  strange, 
they  changed  colour,  they  turned  grey.  .  .  .  Now 
they  are  sometimes  quite  dark-grey,  but  sometimes 
I  see  a  gleam  of  blue  in  them.  I  used  to  feel  so 
sorry  .  .  .  that  they  changed  colour.  .  .  .  Do 
you  remember?  It  was  not  long  before  Uncle 
Gerrit  died.  .  .  .  Oh,  how  frightened  I  felt  .  .  . 
for  days  and  weeks  before!    ..." 

"  And  why  are  you  thinking  of  those  days. 
Mammy  darling?  " 

"  I  don't  know  why.  Perhaps  only  because  it's 
blowing.  .  .  .  How  small  our  country  is  by  the 
sea!  .  .  .  It's  always  blowing,  always  blowing. 
.  .  .  One  would  think  that  everything  that  happens 
is  blown  to  us,  across  the  sea,  and  comes  down  upon 
us,  in  heavy  showers  of  rain.   ..." 

He  smiled. 

"  Oh,  my  boy,  sometimes  I  feel  so  terribly  heavy- 
hearted,  without  knowing  why !   .    .    . " 

"Is  it  the  house?" 

"The  house?    No,  no,  it's  not  the  house." 

"  Don't  you  like  the  house  even  now?  " 

"  Oh,  yes   .    .    .   I'm  pretty  used  to  the  house  1  " 

"  Is  it  the  wind,  the  rain?  " 

"  Perhaps  both.  .  .  .  But  haven't  I  known 
them  for  years?  " 

"  Then  what  is  it  that  makes  you  heavy-hearted?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Come  here,  to  me.   ..." 

"Where,  my  boy?" 

"  On  my  knees,  in  my  arms.    ..." 

She  sat  down  on  his  knees  and  smiled,  sadly: 


DR.  ADRIAAN  53 

"It's  an  age   ..." 

"What?" 

"  Since  I  sat  on  your  knee  like  this.  .  .  .  Do 
you  remember?  Do  you  remember?  When  you 
were  quite  a  boy  .  .  .  and  I  felt  frightened  .  .  . 
I  used  to  creep  up  to  your  little  study  and  creep  into 
your  arms  and  look  into  your  blue  eyes.  ...  I 
never  do  that  now." 

He  clasped  his  arms  round  her: 

"  Then  do  it  again.  There,  you're  doing  it  now. 
.  .  .  My  lap's  bigger  now.  .  .  .  My  eyes  have 
changed  colour.   .    .    . " 

"  Everything,  everything  has  changed  1  " 

"  Has  everything  changed?  " 

"Yes   .    .    .   I've  lost  you!" 

"Mamma!" 

"  I  have  lost  you.  .  .  .  Hush,  dear,  it  was 
bound  to  come !  .  .  .  Does  a  son  belong  to  his 
parents?  .  .  .  Does  a  son  belong  to  his  mother? 
...  A  son  belongs  to  everybody  and  every- 
thing .  .  .  but  not  to  his  parents,  not  to  his 
mother.  ...  It  is  a  cruel  law,  but  it  is  a 
law.   ..." 

"  You're  regretting  the  past  .  .  .  and  there 
was  not  so  much  peace  and  quiet  in  the  past, 
Mummie.  .  .  .  Do  you  remember,  do  you  remem- 
ber .  .  .  how  you  used  to  be  .  .  .  you  and  poor 
Father?  .  .  .  Now  everything  is  much  calmer 
.  .  .  everything  has  smoothed  down  so  .  .  .  be- 
cause life  has  gone  on." 

"  Yes,  life  has  gone  on.  ...  I  had  you  .  .  . 
and  I  have  lost  you !   .    .    . " 

She  was  sobbing  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Mamma !  " 

"  Dear,  it  was  bound  to  be !  Didn't  I  consider 
,.  .  .  that  it  would  be  so  .  .  .  years  and  years 
ago?  .    .    .  When  you  were  a  little  boy,  I  often 


54  DR.  ADRIAAN 

used  to  think,  '  I've  got  him  now  .  .  .  but  one  day 
I  shall  lose  him  irrevocably?'  Now  it  has  come. 
...   I  must  accept  it  with  resignation.    ..." 

"  But  am  I  not  living  with  you  all?  Have  I  ever 
been  away  .  .  .  except  to  college  .  .  .  and 
sometimes  on  business?" 

"  Dear,  it's  not  that.  It's  the  losing  each  other, 
the  losing  each  other  .  .  .  out  of  each  other's 
souls.   ..." 

"  But  it's  not  that." 

"  That's  just  what  it  is.  .  .  .  And  it's  bound  to 
be  so,  dear.  .  .  .  Only,  because  I  no  longer  feel 
any  part  of  you  in  my  soul,  I  no  longer  know  any- 
thing about  you.  ...  I  have  known  nothing  about 
you  for  ages.  ...  I  see  you  going  and  coming — 
it's  the  patients,  it's  the  children,  occupying  you 
...  in  turns — but  what  do  I  know,  what  do  I 
know  about  you?  ...  It  has  become  like  that 
gradually  .  .  .  and  since  .  .  .  since  you  got 
married,  it  has  become  irrevocable." 

"Mamma   ..." 

"I  oughtn't  to  talk  like  this,  dear.  I  mustn't. 
And  I  should  be  able  to  overcome  this  melancholy, 
if  I  knew  .  .  .  that  you  were  happy  in  your- 
self.  ..." 

"  Why  should  you  doubt  it?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  There's  something  about 
you   ..." 

'*  Mother,"  he  said,  "  how  strange  it  is  that  you 
and  Father   ..." 

"Well?" 

"  Have  never  really  found  each  other  I  You  so 
often  think  the  same  things." 

"  Did  Papa  also  think  .    .    .  ?  " 

"  Just  now   .    .    .   almost  the  same  as  you." 

**  We  have  learnt  to  bear  with  each  other,  dar- 
ling." 


DR.  ADRIAAN  55 

"  But  you  have  never  found  each  other,"  he  said, 
faintly;  and  his  voice  broke. 

She  looked  at  him;  she  understood  that  he  too 
had  not  found  his  wife.  She  saw  it:  he  was  not 
happy  in  himself.  A  sword  seemed  suddenly  to 
cut  through  her  soul;  and  she  was  filled  with  self- 
reproach  as  from  a  well.  Was  it  not  all  her  fault, 
that  her  son  was  not  happy  now?  .  .  .  Was  it 
not  the  result  of  his  childhood,  the  result  of  his 
upbringing?  .  .  .  The  melancholy  that  had  come 
after  the  excessive  earnestness  or  his  first  youth 
.    .    .  was  it  not  her  fault? 

But  she  merely  answered  his  words  mechanically: 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  we  have  never  found  each 
other." 

He  would  have  wished  to  tell  her  now  .  .  . 
about  his  journey,  about  the  old  man,  who  had  died, 
over  there,  near  Haarlem.  But  he  could  not;  a 
feeling  of  discouragement  prevented  him.  And  they 
remained  sitting  without  speaking,  close  together, 
with  her  hand  in  his.  After  his  father,  after  his 
mother  had  both,  so  soon  after  each  other,  spoken 
to  him  of  his  own  happiness  .  .  .  now  that  feeling 
of  discouragement  prevented  him,  because  he  saw 
life  enveloping  in  clouds  of  darkness  at  his  feet 
.  .  .  black  darkness  out  of  an  abyss  ...  so  that 
he  did  not  know  whither  the  first  steps  would  lead 
him.  .  .  .  Black  darkness  and  emptiness  .  .  . 
because  he  no  longer  knew,  no  longer  knew  what  it 
would  be  best  to  say  and  do.  .  .  .  He  could  no 
longer  speak  now  of  the  old  man  who  had  died 
yonder,  who  had  sent  for  him  to  tell  him  that  he 
forgave  the  two  of  them — his  father,  his  mother — 
who  had  once  injured  him:  he  could  not  do  it. 
Whereas,  at  the  time  of  his  father's  words,  the 
black  darkness  had  only  whirled  in  front  of  him, 
now  that  his  mother,  so  strangely,  was  saying  the 


56  DR.  ADRIAAN 

same  to  him  ...  it  had  suddenly  become  an  abyss 
.  .  .  pitch-dark  .  .  .  because  he  no  longer  knew 
anything.  .  .  .  He  no  longer  possessed  the  in- 
stinctive knowledge  by  which  he  must  tread  his  path, 
which,  while  still  so  very  young,  he  thought  that  he 
knew  how  to  tread  in  clear  self-consciousness  of  a 
clear  soul  that  felt  its  own  vocation.  Oh,  how  often 
of  late  years  had  he  no  longer  known !  He  no  longer 
knew  what  was  right  to  do,  because,  whatever  he 
had  done  of  late  years,  the  heaviness  had  sunk 
within  him,  as  an  insufficiency,  giving  him  that  feel- 
ing of  discouragement.  .  .  .  He  had  felt  that  dis- 
couragement by  the  bedside  of  his  needy  patients. 
.  .  .  He  had  felt  that  discouragement  in  between 
his  cares  for  Uncle  Gerrit's  children.  .  .  .  He  had 
felt  that  discouragement  when  he  was  with  his  wife, 
with  his  own  children.    .    .    . 

Oh,  world  of  feeling  born  just  of  the  emptiness 
of  self-insufficiency,  because  self,  alas,  was  never 
sufficient,  because  something  was  always  lacking  and 
he  did  not  know  what !  .  .  .  And,  when  this  came 
over  him,  this  night  of  sudden  chaos,  the  word  died 
on  his  lips,  the  movement  on  his  fingers,  the  deed 
on  his  will.  .  .  .  Oh,  world  of  darkness,  which 
then  suddenly  spread  like  the  expanse  of  clouds  out- 
side over  all  the  clear  sky  of  himself!  .  .  .  He 
knew  he  wanted  what  was  right;  and  yet  the  insuf- 
ficiency swelled  up.  .  .  .  He  know  his  powers  of 
alleviation  and  consolation ;  and  yet  it  was  the  night 
without  a  smile  ...  as  now,  when  he  sat  with 
his  hand  in  his  mother's;  with  no  words  after  their 
first,  save  that  she  shuddered  and  said: 

"  Hark  .  .  .  hark  how  the  wind  is  blow- 
ing!   ..." 

He  drew  her  to  him,  until  her  head  sank  on  his 
shoulder,  and  they  remained  like  that,  in  the  night. 

The  gale  outside  was  like  a  living  immensity,  a 


DR.  ADRIAAN  57 

vast  soul  raging  with  world-suffering,  thousand- 
voiced  and  thousand-winged,  and  under  its  raging 
agony,  which  filled  all  the  air  above  the  land,  the 
house  that  contained  the  life  of  them  all  was  small 
as  some  tiny  casket.   .    .    . 

And  that  night  he  was  unable  to  tell  her.  .  ..   .. 


CHAPTER  V 

Now  at  last,  after  days,  he  was  himself  again! 
Alone,  all  alone,  in  the  night,  in  his  study,  while 
everyone  in  the  house  slept,  while  only  the  night 
itself  was  awake:  the  night  and  the  immense  wind 
tormenting  itself  and  struggling,  raging  and  tearing 
round  the  house.  Now  at  last  he  was  alone  and 
himself  again,  after  Amsterdam  and  after  Haarlem, 
after  the  troubles  and  comings  and  goings,  the  ex- 
citement— needy  patients,  visited  by  stealth;  the 
Merchants'  School;  the  old  man,  the  old  man  espe- 
cially I — and,  tired  as  he  was,  yet  he  could  not  make 
up  his  mind  for  bed.  In  the  study  which  was  now 
getting  dusky-brown  to  his  eyes  in  the  light  of  the 
lamp,  he  sat  in  the  low  leather  chair;  and  his  head 
wearily  drooped  on  to  his  hand.  Now  that  he  had 
no  more  need  for  action,  waves  of  indeterminate 
darkness  surged  and  floated  all  around  and  within 
him,  bearing  on  their  crests  the  mood  of  self- 
insufficiency.  No  one  else  knew  him  as  he  now  knew 
and  felt  himself:  not  his  parents,  not  his  wife,  not  one 
of  Uncle  Gerrit's  children,  not  one  of  his  needy  pa- 
tients, who  only  saw  him  composed  and  steady  of 
nerve,  a  little  sombre-eyed,  but  so  four-square  and 
firm,  so  calm  and  confident  in  his  knowledge,  always 
sure  what  would  be  good  for  all  of  them,  who  were 
ill  and  wretched.  .  .  .  No  one  knew  him  as  he 
was  now,  weighed  down  with  such  despondency 
in  his  leather  chair;  and  all  who  saw  him  four- 
square and  firm,  calm  and  confident  in  his  know- 
ledge, would  never  have  believed  that  he  knew  no- 
thing at  all   .    .    .   for  himself.    Oh,  however  much 

58 


DR.  ADRIAAN  59 

he  might  know  for  others,  with  that  almost  mystic 
knowledge  which  healed  as  though  by  a  suggestive 
force  deep  down  within  himself,  however  much  he 
might  know  what  was  good  for  their  bodies  and 
souls,  for  himself  he  knew  nothing,  least  of  all  for 
his  soul  I  .  .  .  To  them  his  young  life  seemed  to 
move  from  one  goal  to  another,  always  certain  of 
itself  through  the  windings  of  its  course;  yet  that 
was  all  on  the  surface;  and  he  knew  nothing  of 
himself  I  .  .  .  His  own  disease  was  insufficiency; 
and  of  recent  years  he  had  felt  it  swelling  within 
him  fuller  and  fuller,  eating  into  him  deeper  and 
deeper.   .    .    . 

He  saw  himself  again  as  a  child — his  first  recol- 
lection— between  his  two  parents,  his  father  taking 
him  from  his  mother's  lap,  his  mother  taking  him 
from  his  father's  arms;  and  amid  the  unconscious- 
ness of  his  earliest  childhood  he  had  always  felt 
the  jarring  and  jealousy  between  them.  Very  soon 
his  blood  made  him  speak,  that  calm  unfevered 
Dutch  blood;  and  his  unfevered  Dutch  nature  could 
be  seen  in  his  serious  eyes;  from  the  first  his  Dutch 
seriousness  and  steadying  composure  had  been  able 
to  find,  If  not  always  words,  at  least  sounds  of 
consoling  reconciliation,  of  riper  tenderness  for  that 
mother,  who  hugged  him  in  her  arms,  for  that 
father,  whom  he  came  to  regard  so  soon  as  a  bigger 
and  older  brother.  And  this  when  he  was  still  a 
little  fellow.  It  had  been  like  that  ever  since  he 
could  remember;  from  the  time  when  he  was  a 
child  In  the  nursery,  stroking  Mother's  tearful  eyes 
and  bringing  a  laugh  to  Father's  pouting  mouth; 
and,  as  he  grew  older  and  bigger,  he  remembered, 
it  had  always  been  like  that:  he  knew  himself  to 
have  been  their  comfort.  ...  It  was  small  won- 
der that,  when  still  quite  young,  he  had  begun  to 
think  of  the  comfort  that  he  was  and  had  then 


6o  DR.  ADRIAAN 

known  for  certain  that  he  was  their  comfort.  .  .  . 
He  knew  it  then,  as  child  and  boy — no  longer  in 
unconsciousness  but  in  assured,  unshakable  know- 
ledge— and  then  it  had  become  his  destiny.  So  very 
early  it  had  dawned  on  his  consciousness  and  after- 
wards glittered  before  his  eyes: 

"  I  must  help  them,  I  must  be  to  him  and  to  her 
what  is  dear  to  them  and  what  comforts  them." 

So  naturally  had  he  taken  that  destiny  upon  his 
young  shoulders  that  it  never  became  too  heavy  for 
him;  and  there  had  grown  up  with  him  an  inclina- 
tion to  comfort  and  alleviate  those  who  were  not 
quite  so  near  to  him.  Quite  naturally  he  had  spread 
his  wing  over  all  Uncle  Gerrit's  children,  to  care 
for  them,  to  bring  them  up.  Quite  naturally,  he 
sought  what  he  could  find  to  alleviate  and  comfort, 
whom  he  could  cure,  whom  he  could  care  for  .  .  . 
and  this  farther  still  from  him,  not  close  to  his 
home,  but  in  outlying  villages  and  distant  towns. 
.  .  .  Thus  had  his  nature  grown  and  thus  did  he 
act,  naturally,  in  obedience  to  his  nature.  .  .  ,  But 
the  conflict  between  his  parents,  coming  immediately, 
in  the  first,  unconscious  years  of  childhood,  had 
made  his  tender  nerves  tremble  with  an  incessant 
thrill,  like  a  stringed  instrument  that  is  never  silent. 
.  .  .  And  under  the  calm,  earnest  glance,  under 
the  laugh  of  comfort  or  composure,  under  the  sturdy 
breadth  of  his  young  and  manly  strength,  the  strings 
had  always  vibrated  and  never  consented  to  betray 
themselves.  .  .  .  They  had  betrayed  themselves 
once,  once  only,  when  his  very  earliest  childish  pain 
had  given  him  a  violent  shock,  in  a  despair  too  great 
to  be  borne.  .  .  .  But  immediately  afterwards  he 
had  known  within  himself  that  he  must  be  strong  to 
overcome  the  cruelties  of  life.  .  .  .  Since  then  the 
cruelties  had  blown  against  him,  like  piercing  winds 
.    .    .  without    causing    the    sensitive    strings    to 


DR.  ADRIAAN  6i 

vibrate  visibly  or  audibly  to  others.  .  .  .  Oh,  did 
he  not  remember  that  suffering  of  his  childish  soul 
when  he  fancied  that  all  his  childish  love  had  been 
wasted,  because  his  parents  in  despite  of  it  were 
going  to  separate,  each  grasping  at  the  happiness 
that  had  smiled  to  him!  ...  no  one  had  seen 
that  suffering  and  vibration.  After  the  lirst  suffer- 
ing, no  one  had  seen  anything.  And  it  was  as  if  the 
too-great  sensitiveness  of  the  ever-vibrant  strings 
had  hardened  in  the  robust  young  years  of  manli- 
ness; the  .god  had  stood  before  him  so  sharply 
defined:  yonder !    .    .    .    Yonder!    .    .    . 

He  had  felt  young  and  robust;  and  that  too- 
sensitive  vibration  had  only  developed  his  soul 
mystically,  so  that  it  should  heal,  wherever  it 
directed  its  magic.  ...  It  had  been  very  strange 
to  him;  but  just  with  the  medical  studies,  which 
should  have  made  him  a  materialist,  there  had  de- 
veloped within  him  a  conscious  mysticism,  enquiring 
into  the  essence  of  life,  which  the  medical  books 
failed  to  teach  him.  When  he  discussed  it  with 
his  student  friends,  they  answered  with  the  scoff  of 
growing  positivism,  the  barren  philosophy  which 
clings  to  most  men  from  their  medical  studies,  be- 
cause they  ask  only  for  the  visible  manifestations  of 
the  life  which  it  is  their  business  to  tend  and  not 
for  the  invisible  source,  the  holy  well  of  life,  whence 
everything  flows  in  a  radiance  that  grows  gradually 
dim  .  .  .  until  the  first  radiance  is  no  longer 
visible.   .    .    . 

So  it  had  happened  with  his  student  friends;  and 
theirs  had  become  the  common  materialistic  doctor's 
career.  His  eyes  had  always  been  set  on  the  essence 
of  life,  the  source  of  the  radiant  spring.  .  .  .  And, 
with  his  increase  in  practical  science  and  positive 
knowledfre,  the  strange,  mystic  certainty  had  in- 
creased in  him,  the  certainty  that  he  was  able  to 


62  DR.  ADRIAAN 

heal  if  he  wished  .  .  .  that  he  could  heal  through 
sheer  force  of  will.  ...  It  was  not  a  matter  for 
discussion,  it  was  in  him,  a  great  instinctive  know- 
ledge. .  .  .  Oh,  that  glorious  certainty,  which  had 
shone  out  before  him  so  early,  sending  its  rays 
abroad.  .  .  .  Since  he  had  felt  it,  very  early,  so 
clear  and  certain  in  himself,  he  no  longer  spoke 
about  it;  at  most  there  was  a  very  rare  word  to  his 
mother,  an  occasional  word  to  his  father;  but  for  the 
rest  he  would  not  touch  his  secret  power  with  words : 
they  were  breath  to  dim  a  mirror's  lustre  1 

Oh,  why  had  he  not  this  knowledge  for  himself  I 
Why,  of  late  years,  had  he  sunk  deeper  and  deeper 
in  the  vagueness  of  that  self-insufficiency!  Why 
was  the  balance  disturbed,  why  did  he  feel  a  con- 
sciousness of  blame  welling  within  him ! 

He  now  sat  on  wearily;  and,  though  everyone  in 
the  house  was  in  bed,  though  the  blowing  wind, 
gigantic  and  plaintive,  moaned  up  over  distant 
heaths  and  slid  along  the  walls  and  windows  with 
its  sombre,  swelling  howl,  he  could  not  make  up  his 
mind  to  go  to  bed,  as  though  he  knew  that,  if  he 
did,  he  would  not  sleep.  And,  as  if  to  know  for 
himself  how  the  discouragement  could  have  over- 
mastered him,  he  dived  back  into  his  memories,  saw 
himself  a  boy  again,  healthy,  strong  and  composed, 
loving  his  Dutch  horizons  and  Dutch  skies,  with  the 
deep,  growing  conviction  that  he  had  within  himself 
the  secret  power  which  he  could  pour  forth  to  heal 
all  who  suffered  in  body  or  in  nervous  soul.  .  .  . 
lie  saw  once  more  the  disappointment  of  his  parents, 
especially  Papa,  and  of  Grandmamma,  because  he 
would  not  enter  the  diplomatic  service,  because  he 
wanted  to  become  a  doctor.  .  .  .  But  he  had  car- 
ried his  wish,  backed  up  by  Mamma,  who  seemed 
to  understand  him.  .  .  .  His  rapid  power  of  study, 
which  allowed  him  to  attain  in  feverish  haste  the 


DR.  ADRIAAN  63 

aim  which  he  saw  so  close  before  his  eyes :  matricu- 
lating out  of  the  fifth  class  at  school;  putting  in 
a  short  time  at  Heidelberg  before  he  went  to 
Leiden:  he  was  so  very  young,  only  seventeen; 
passing  his  first  examination  in  a  year,  his  second 
in  eighteen  months,  taking  three  intermediate  courses 
in  the  next  five  years,  during  which  period  he  also 
acquired  practical  experience  with  a  demonstrator 
at  Vienna;  and  lastly  taking  his  degree  at  the  age 
of  twenty-six.  His  parents  rejoiced  when,  after 
those  nine  years  at  the  university  and  abroad,  he 
settled  down  with  them  at  Driebergen,  when  they 
had  him  back  in  their  house,  where,  despite  the 
presence  of  all  Uncle  Gerrit's  children,  he  had  left 
a  feeling  of  emptiness.  ...  A  short  spell  of  the 
tenderness  of  living  with  them  all  again;  and  his 
love  for  mankind  had  developed  so  quickly,  making 
him  find  his  patients  inevitably  among  the  poorest 
of  the  rural  population,  or  sometimes  in  the  vil- 
lages, or  even  at  Utrecht  or  Amsterdam.  .  .  .  He 
never  spoke  about  them,  maintaining  an  earnest 
silence  about  the  things  which  he  did,  even  as  he 
was  silent  about  the  secret  force  which  he  so  cer- 
tainly knew  himself  to  possess.  .  .  .  Never  had 
he  spoken  to  anybody  over  that  poor  little  girl,  a 
child  of  twelve,  the  daughter  of  two  wretched 
labourers,  a  cripple  since  the  age  of  five,  whom,  with 
the  veriest  trifle  of  material  assistance,  but  more 
particularly  through  his  sure  power  of  will,  he  had 
gradually  helped  to  raise  herself  from  her  bed  of 
straw,  enabled  to  move  herself  about,  until  she  could 
now  walk  on  her  frail  and  yielding  little  legs.  .  .  . 
He  might  have  been  ashamed  of  a  cure  so  incredible, 
for  he  had  never  talked  about  it,  not  even  to  his 
mother,  not  even  to  his  father.    .    .    . 

Oh,  it  lasted  such  a  short  time,  the  tenderness  of 
that  time  when  he  lived  with  them  all  again,  with 


64  DR.  ADRIAAN 

his  parents  and  the  others!  .  .  .  When  he  re- 
flected upon  the  strange  double  projection  of  his 
soul,  when  he  was  meeting  the  girl,  who  was  now 
his  wife,  at  the  Hague :  meeting  her  just  now  and 
again.  A  strange  projection  one  of  them?  Perhaps 
not,  after  all;  but,  because  of  the  stormy  night  wind, 
sombrely  sending  its  howl  over  the  sombre  heaths, 
he  was  not  able  ...  to  read  his  own  thoughts 
plainly.  .  .  .  Mathilde!  The  few  meetings,  at 
the  Hague;  then  that  feeling,  when  he  chose  her, 
of  having  been  irresistibly  compelled;  and,  combined 
with  a  vague  wonder  within  himself,  the  pride  also 
of  introducing  that  good-looking  and  healthy  young 
woman  into  his  family.  .  .  .  He  was  proud  that 
she  did  not  belong  to  their  class,  especially  on  her 
mother's  side,  because  it  gave  her  an  opportunity  of 
triumphing  over  their  arbitrary  divisions;  proud  too 
that  she  was  healthy,  with  her  complexion  of  milk 
and  roses,  and  above  all  did  not  suffer  from 
"  nerves,"  that  all  too  common  complaint  among 
them  all.  .  .  .  But  they  had  not  shared  his  pride; 
and  after  his  marriage,  some  hint  of  antagonism 
seemed  inevitably  to  arise  between  him  and  his 
father;  his  mother,  too,  for  all  the  liberalism  that 
had  come  to  her  late  in  life,  remained  antipathetic 
to  this  girl,  whose  gait  and  voice,  whose  movements 
and  utterance  all  suggested  a  different  environment 
from  that  to  which  Constance  was  accustomed;  it 
was  as  if  Aunt  Adeline,  Emilie,  Uncle  Gerrit's 
children,  all  their  big  household,  had  been  unable 
to  receive  Mathilde  in  their  midst  without  a  certain 
supercilious  mistrust.  .  .  .  They  could  none  of 
them  understand  why  he  had  married  this 
woman.  .  .  .  And  he  had  not  failed  to  see  how 
they  always  stirred  themselves  to  be  gentle  and 
amiable  towards  her — because,  when  all  was  said 
and   done,   she   was   his   wife — stirred   themselves 


DR.  ADRIAAN  65 

especially  not  to  let  her  see  that  they  all  thought 
her  not  quite,  really  not  quite.  .  ,  .  Her  footfall 
was  heavy,  her  voice  not  high-pitched  enough;  in 
everything  that  she  did  or  said  they  marked  that 
sometimes  infinitesimal  difference  which  betrays  a 
difference  of  station.  He  had  not  failed  to  see  it, 
but  his  pride  had  lain  low  and  had  never  allowed 
them  to  notice  that  he  saw  it,  because  he  thought 
it  so  small  of  them,  so  small-souled,  that  they  could 
not  blind  themselves  to  that  infinitesimal  difference 
between  Mathilde  and  themselves,  yes,  because  he 
considered  even  their  assiduous  amiability  small- 
souled.  They  showed  it  her  so  graciously  some- 
times, priding  themselves,  all  of  them,  willy-nilly, 
upon  their  greater  native  and  acquired  distinction, 
all  thinking  themselves  finer  and  better  and  higher 
than  his  wife,  whom  nevertheless  they  did  not  wish 
to  wound.  .  .  .  He  saw  this  last  even  in  his 
mother,  in  the  boys,  in  Adeletje  and  in  Gerdy — 
though  Gerdy  never  succeeded — and  he  really  pre- 
ferred the  undisguised  aversion  of  little  Klaasje, 
who  clearly  showed  that  she  could  not  bear 
MathiWe.   .    .    . 

And  he  now  saw  that,  in  marrying  this  woman, 
who  was  not  quite  of  their  class,  he  had  wanted  to 
display  pride  in  particular  against  the  arbitrariness 
of  those  whom  he  called  his  people — his  parents,  his 
family — he  had  wanted  to  show  that  there  was  no 
longer  any  distinction  of  class,  especially  no  dis- 
tinction in  those  minor  shades  of  class.  If  they  were 
going  to  think  about  distinctions,  she  had  the  dis- 
tinction of  health  .  .  .  while  his  own  people  were 
all  sick,  in  body  and  soul,  not,  it  might  be,  suffering 
severely,  but  all  affected  or  tainted  with  those 
"  nerves  "  of  their  time.  .  .  .  Perhaps  his  pride 
had  just  contained  a  desire  to  place  his  wife, 
Mathilde,  before  them  as  an  example: 


66  DR.  ADRIAAN 

"  Look  here  now,  here's  a  woman  who  is  healthy 
and  simple." 

For  that  was  how  he  looked  upon  her  soul  and 
body.  Because  he  looked  upon  her  thus,  he  had 
felt  for  her  the  love  that  had  driven  him  towards 
her,  his  soul  taking  that  direction  of  positivism  and 
materialism  which,  after  his  student  days,  had  at 
that  moment  mastered  the  mysticism  of  his  soul. 
.  .  .  For  he  had  known  then,  those  moments  in 
which  he — tired  of  his  text-books  or  hardened  in 
the  operating-room — had  felt  the  mysticism  within 
him  temporarily  fading;  and  it  was  especially  during 
those  intervals  of  materialism  that  the  young  doctor 
had  experienced  Mathilde's  attraction,  the  attrac- 
tion of  a  healthy,  pink-and-white  woman  who  would 
give  him  healthy  children.  At  such  moments  he 
saw  the  world,  all  mankind,  renewed  by  careful 
selection;  the  vigorous  life-force  of  the  future  burst- 
ing into  luxuriant  rose-blossoms  which  would  over- 
whelm the  sickly  lilies  of  these  days  of  "  nerves." 
.  .  .  When,  afterwards,  the  secret  forces  spoke 
more  loudly  within  him,  then  he  would  suddenly 
feel  himself  far  removed  from  his  wife,  as  though 
he  had  lost  her;  and  especially  in  his  dark,  vague 
self-insufficiency  he  lost  her  entirely,  feeling  himself 
nerveless  and  without  power  even  to  return  her 
kisses  with  any  warmth,  while  his  voice  in  speaking 
to  her  remained  dull  and  his  grey  glance  cold,  what- 
ever he  said  and  however  hard  he  tried  to  force 
himself  back  Into  his  healtbv,  oositive  love  for  the 
healthy  mother  of  his  two  children.   .    .    . 

Then  he  would  feel  guilty  towards  her.  And  the 
Inner  conviction  of  his  guilt  increased.  Was  it  her 
fault  that  he  had  been  able  only  to  give  her  one 
half  of  his  soul,  that  he  had  it  in  his  power  to  love 
her  only  with  the  positive  half  of  his  nature — 
however  sincere  it  might  be — while  he  gave  her 


DR.  ADRIAAN  67 

nothing  of  what  worked  and  moved  in  him  more* 
profoundly  and  gloriously,  the  true  web  and  woof 
of  himself?  Was  it  her  fault  and  was  he  really 
entitled  to  take  her,  if  he  could  not  give  her  more 
than  half  of  himself,  while  all  that  was  higher — 
and  he  well  knew  what  was  higher  in  him — escaped 
her  and  always  would  escape  her?  .  .  .  But  often 
in  his  black  insufficiency,  even  as  now  in  his  weary 
nocturnal  mood,  his  consciousness  of  guilt,  though 
it  pained  him,  became  suddenly  too  dreamy  and 
unreal;  and  he  now  comforted  himself  tranquilly: 

"  She  is  a  simple  woman.  She  has  never  thought 
of  other  than  simple  and  uncomplicated  things,  has 
never  lived  among  them;  and  she  will  never  miss 
this,  all  that  I  do  not  give  her,  §he  will  never  know 
the  lack  of  it,  because  she  is  simple,  because  she  is 
simple:  a  healthy,  normal  mother,  the  handsome, 
healthy  mother  of  my  two  dear  children.   .    .    ."    , 

Then  again,  tired  and  undecided  to  go  to  bed,  he 
was  pricked  by  his  consciousness  of  guilt,  he  thought 
of  her  unhappy  in  the  house  that  was  dear  to  him, 
and  he  knew  that  he  was  incapable  to-day — and  so 
often,  so  often ! — of  giving  her  that  love,  that  posi- 
tive half,  that  one  half  of  himself.  .  .  .  Sinking 
and  sinking  in  his  self-insufficiency,  he  now  listened 
to  the  wind  howling  round  the  house,  the  storm  that 
had  lasted  for  days,  and  he  seemed  to  hear  voices 
that  came  moaning  up  over  the  wide  heath,  as 
though  the  wind  were  alive,  as  though  the  storm 
were  a  soul,  as  though  it  concealed  weeping  souls, 
complaining  souls,  and  were  their  one  manifestation: 
souls  blowing  up  again  and  again,  souls  which  now, 
in  the  night,  tapped  with  soul-fingers  at  the  trembling 
panes.  .  .  .  Round  about  this  house,  in  v/hich  his 
grand-parents  had  lived  so  long  and  in  such  lone- 
liness, until  now  life  had  come  to  fill  all  the  empty 
rooms,  it  suddenly  seemed  to  him  as  though  he  heard 


68  DR.  ADRIAAN 

something  of  their  voices,  moaning  plaintively 
through  the  storm  .  .  .  accusing  him  first  and 
then  pitying  him:  the  old  man's  voice,  the  old 
woman's  voice.  But  what  they  moaned  he  did  not 
understand  in  the  ever  shriller  howl  upon  howl  that 
floated  despairingly  along  the  swishing  trees  .  .  . 
until  suddenly  the  window,  fastened  only  by  the 
latch,  blew  open  with  a  fierce  tug,  the  Venetian 
shutter  flapped  to  and  slung  open  again,  banging 
against  the  wall  of  the  house.  .  .  .  The  wind 
entered  and  with  one  breath  blew  out  the  lamp. 
The  room  now  dark,  the  night  luridly  visible  out- 
side, the  window  so  desperately  pulled  open  took  on 
new  outlines.  .  .  .  Adriaan,  groping,  knocking 
against  the  chairs,  moved  towards  the  window, 
seized  the  flapping,  banging  shutter,  closed  it,  closed 
the  window,  firmly  this  time,  turning  the  old  latch 
that  was  stiff  with  rust. 

The  rain  poured  in  torrents;  the  wind  moaned 
and  sobbed  with  sorrowfully  entreating  voices  and 
tapped  its  fingers  against  the  trembling  panes. 

That  night  he  did  not  sleep,  tired  as  he  was. 
And  he  kept  thinking: 

"Am  I  at  fault?" 


CHAPTER  VI 

The  old  lady  was  sitting  silently  at  the  window — in 
the  grey  morning,  which  seemed  spent  and  weary 
with  the  wind  out  of  doors — and  her  thoughts  were 
following  a  far  course  of  their  own  in  misty  days  of 
long  ago.  Klaasje  came  up  to  her.  The  child  had 
two  heavy  books  under  her  arm,  bound  volumes  of 
The  Graphic  and  U Illustration,  and  walked  bent 
under  them;  then  she  dropped  them,  clumsily.  .  .  . 
Cross  with  the  weight  of  the  books,  she  beat  them 
angrily,  but  the  hard  boards  hurt  her  little  hand; 
and  so  she  decided  to  drag  them  to  Granny,  the 
naughty  books  which  refused  to  come :  she  dragged 
them  by  the  open  bindings  which  had  hurt  her  so; 
she  tore  them  a  bit,  but  that  was  their  own  fault, 
because  they  wouldn't  be  carried.  .  .  .  Satisfied 
with  her  revenge  in  tearing  the  books,  she  closed 
the  bindings  contentedly;  the  books  lay  at  Granny's 
feet,  against  her  foot-warmer;  and  now  Klaasje 
dragged  up  a  hassock  too,  pushed  it  against 
Granny's  dress  and,  kneeling  on  the  hassock,  asked 
Granny,  in  a  motherly  fashion : 

"Granny!  .  .  .  Granny!  .  .  .  Granny  like  to 
look  at  pictures?  " 

The  old  woman,  with  a  vague,  misty  glance, 
slowly  turned  her  head  towards  the  child,  whose  fair 
hair  fell  loosely  round  the  rather  thin,  sharp  little 
face,  from  which  the  over-bright  eyes  shone 
strangely,  hard  and  staring.  The  voice — "  Granny 
look  at  pictures?" — rang  strangely  kind,  but  too 
childish  for  a  big  girl  of  twelve,  with  a  maturing 
figure.    It  was  too  maternal  towards  the  old  woman: 

69 


f70  DR.  ADRIAAN 

"  Granny !  .  .  .  Granny  like  to  look  at  pic- 
tures ?  " 

The  old  woman,  vaguely,  fancied  herself  at 
Buitenzorg,  in  a  large  white  palace  among  mount- 
ains, which  stood  out  against  a  blue  sky,  and  coco- 
trees,  which  waved  gently  like  ostrich-feathers;  and 
she  thought  that  her  little  daughter  Gertrude  was 
kneeling  by  her  and  wanting  to  look  at  the  books 
with  her.  Her  old  mouth  wore  a  little  puckered 
smile;  and  she  put  out  her  hands  for  the  book, 
which  Klaasje  held  up  clumsily.  But  the  old 
woman  was  too  weak  to  pull  the  heavy  book  on  to 
her  lap  and  it  slipped  obstinately  down  her  dress  to 
the  floor,  against  the  foot-warmer.  Klaasje  grew 
angry : 

*' Naughty  books,  naughty  books!    ..." 

She  flew  into  a  temper  and  struck  the  books  again; 
but  her  little  hand  was  hurt  and  she  suddenly  began 
to  cry.     ' 

"Ssh!  .  .  .  Ssh!  .  .  ."  said  Granny,  sooth- 
ingly. 

She  bent  painfully  in  her  big  chair  and  laboriously 
pulled  up  the  heavy,  obstinate  book;  and  Klaasje, 
with  her  eyes  still  wet,  pushed  up  from  below,  till 
at  last  it  lay  in  Grandmamma's  lap.  Then  Klaasje 
sighed,  after  the  final  victory : 

"  Turn  over,"  she  said. 

She  turned  over  the  heavy,  clumsy  binding  and 
said: 

"  Klaasje  will  explain.    ..." 

But  the  black  pictures,  the  dark  portraits  held  no 
story  for  her;  and,  pointing  her  finger  at  the  picture 
or  the  portrait,  she  could  not  make  one  up,  could 
not  find  her  tongue : 

"  Turn  over,  turn  over,"  she  repeated. 

She  was  longing  for  colours,  yellow,  blue  and 
red;   but   the   pictures    contained   black,    all   black 


DR.  ADRIAAN  71 

stripes  and  black  patches,  and  she  thought  them 
ugly. 

"  Turn  over,  turn  over,  turn  over, '  she  kept  re- 
peating, excitedly  yearning  for  them  to  become 
yellow,  blue  and  red. 

The  old  woman,  with  her  puckered  smile,  pa- 
tiently turned  over  the  pictures.  For  her  too  they 
held  no  story,  because  they  were  black  and  sombre; 
and  she  was  already  seeing  colours  for  herself,  the 
dead-white  and  deep-blue,  the  bright,  lacquered 
green  of  houses,  sky  and  trees  in  Java.  Here,  under 
the  sombre  oppression  of  the  skies,  here,  in  the 
sombre  pictures,  the  old  woman  and  the  child  found 
nothing  to  charm  them. 

Then  Klaasje  became  very  angry  and  dragged 
the  heavy  book  from  Granny's  lap  and  beat  it, 
heedless  of  the  pain,  and  scolded : 

"  Ugly  books   .    .    .   ugly,  black  books  I  " 

"  Ssh !  .  .  .  Ssh !  "  said  the  old  woman  sooth- 
ingly, laying  her  veined  hand  on  the  girl's  fair  head. 

"  Build  a  tower!  "  said  Klaasje,  with  a  gurgle  of 
laughter  suddenly  beholding  a  beautiful  vision. 

She  sprang  up  quickly.  On  a  table  in  a  corner 
of  the  room  she  found  a  box  of  dominoes.  She 
brought  the  box,  beaming  with  delight,  but  the 
smooth  lid  slid  out  of  the  box  and  the  dominoes 
rattled  on  the  floor.  Klaasje  stamped  her  foot,  but 
the  beautiful  vision  still  shone  before  her  and  hur- 
riedly and  passionately  she  scrabbled  them  into  her 
little  pinafore.  Then  she  brought  them  to  Granny, 
like  a  harvest,  like  so  much  booty,  and  rattled  them 
down  at  her  feet.  With  a  great  effort  she  again 
pushed  one  of  the  heavy  books  on  to  Granny's  lap; 
and  the  old  woman  helped  her,  pulling  while  Klaasje 
pushed. 

"  Build  tower!  "  cried  the  child. 

Granny  held  the  book,   held  it  straight,   while 


72  DR.  ADRIAAN 

Klaasje  placed  two,  three,  four  pieces  on  their  nar- 
row edges.  Upon  these  she  went  on  building  the 
rickety  black-and-white  tower. 

"  A  door  and  two  windows,"  the  child  explained, 
lost  in  her  game. 

But  the  tower  fell  in  with  a  crash. 

"  Granny  mustn't  move !  "  she  whimpered. 

Balancing  the  heavy  book  on  Granny's  knees,  she 
went  on  building,  hurriedly,  so  as  to  get  very  high. 

"  Granny  mustn't  move  again.  .  .  .  Tower 
.  .  .  with  a  wall  round  it.  .  .  .  Higher  .  .  . 
the  tower  .  .  .  one  more  stone  on  the  wall  .  .  . 
one  more  stone  on  the  wall.   ..." 

But  the  wall  and  the  tower  came  down  with  a 
crash. 

"  Naughty  Granny  I   .    .    .   Naughty  Granny !  " 

"  Ssh !  "  said  the  old  woman,  soothingly. 

Addie  had  entered;  and  the  child,  dropping  the 
book  and  the  dominoes,  crowed  with  delight  and 
ran  up  to  him.  She  called  him  uncle,  not  realizing 
that  he  was  her  cousin: 

"  Uncle  Addie !  "  she  cooed. 

He  opened  his  arms  wide,  lifted  her  a  few  inches 
from  the  floor : 

"  Look  in  Uncle  Addie's  pockets,"  he  said. 

"  What  have  you  got?    What  have  you  got?  " 

She  fumbled  in  his  pockets. 

"  No,  that's  Uncle's  pocket-book.  .  .  .  No, 
that's  his  watch.   .    .    .   Here,  look,  what's  this  ?  " 

He  now  helped  her  find  the  little  parcel.  She 
tugged  hurriedly  at  the  paper  and  string;  and  he 
opened  the  parcel  for  her.  It  was  a  little  kaleido- 
scope. 

"  Look  through  it.   .    .    . " 

"  Lovely  1  "  said  the  child,  gleefully.  "  Lovely 
.    .    .  blue,  red,  yellow  I    .    .    ." 

"Now  shake  it.   .    .  .." 


DR.  ADRIAAN  73 

She  shook  the  kaleidoscope:  the  colours,  from  a 
square,  changed  their  figure  into  a  star. 

"  Green,  blue,  red !  "  the  child  cried. 

"  Now  shake  again.   ..." 

"  Blue  and  yellow." 

"There,  what  do  you  say  to  that?" 

"  Lovely  1   .    .    .  Lovely!   ..." 

She  sat  down  on  the  floor,  suddenly  quiet  and 
good,  peered  and  shook  the  little  cylinder,  peered 
and  shook  it  again.  In  the  gaudy  star  she  suddenly 
beheld  a  paradise : 

"  Green,  yellow,  blue." 

Addie  relieved  Grandmamma  of  the  book,  put  it 
down  and  began  to  arrange  the  dominoes  in  the  box. 

"  It's  been  blowing,"  said  the  old  woman,  pointing 
through  the  window.  "  There  are  great  branches 
lying  in  the  garden." 


CHAPTER  VII 

Then  Adeline  came  in,  looking  for  Addie.  He 
was  so  tired  yesterday  that  she  had  not  cared  to 
ask  him  the  result  of  his  visit  to  Amsterdam,  but 
now,  while  he  was  still  playing  with  Klaasje,  she 
glanced  at  him  with  questioning  eyes.  She  was  still 
a  young  woman,  no  more  than  forty,  for  she  had 
married  Gerrit  early  and  then  borne  him  a  child 
every  year;  but,  despite  her  gentle,  round,  fair  face, 
she  was  no  longer  young  in  appearance.  Her  lines 
had  become  matronly;  and,  especially  after  the  great 
sorrow,  after  her  husband's  suicide,  which  had 
plunged  her  and  the  children  into  perpetual  shadow 
like  an  indehble  twilight,  she  had  become  so  spirit- 
less in  all  her  simple  energies  that  she  came  like 
a  child  to  Constance  or  Addie  about  anything  that 
concerned  any  one  of  them :  mostly  to  Addie,  whom 
she  had  taken  to  regarding  as  her  inevitable  pro- 
tector. She  looked  up  at  him  with  respectful  con- 
fidence; she  always  did  literally  what  he  told  her 
to;  it  was  he  who  controlled  their  whole  little  for- 
tune, investing  it  as  profitably  as  possible  for  the 
children;  notwithstanding  his  youth,  she  turned  to 
him  in  all  that  concerned  her  boys;  and  the  boys 
themselves  accepted  it,  inevitably,  that  their  cousin, 
who  was  only  six  or  seven  years  older  than  they, 
should  look  after  their  Interests  with  paternal 
earnestness.  But  Adeline  was  well  aware  that  Addie 
was  very  angry  that  Alex  had  had  to  leave  Alkmaar. 
At  first,  things  had  gone  fairly  well  in  the  secondary 
school  at  the  Hague;  after  the  third  form — he  was 
seventeen  by  this  time — he  had  just  succeeded  in 

74 


DR.  ADRIAAN  75 

passing  his  matriculation;  but,  when  he  took  two 
years  over  his  first  examination  and  failed  in  the 
second,  Addie  himself  had  considered  that  Alex  had 
better  look  out  for  something  different,  however 
much  his  mother,  with  her  mind  full  of  Gerrit, 
would  have  liked  to  see  her  eldest  son  an 
officer.   .    .    . 

By  this  time,  he  was  nearly  twenty;  and  it  was  so 
late  for  him  to  go  to  the  Merchants'  School  at 
Amsterdam  that  Addie  had  decided  first  to  obtain 
all  the  details  for  himself  and  therefore  had  gone  to 
Amsterdam,  to  see  the  head-master.  .  .  .  That 
was  why,  this  morning,  Adeline  came  to  talk  to 
Addie,  a  little  nervously,  rather  frightened  of  what 
he  might  say,  because  he  had  been  exceedingly  dis- 
satisfied about  Alex,  discouraged,  not  knowing  what 
to  do  with  him  next.  .  .  .  He  would  like  to  have 
a  talk  with  Alex,  he  said;  and  Adeline,  sad  about 
her  son  and  rather  frightened  of  Addie,  went  to 
fetch  Alex  and  brought  him  back  with  her.  He 
was  tall,  slender,  pale,  fair-haired:  he  did  not  look 
strong,  although  he  had  resembled  his  father,  espe- 
cially as  a  child;  every  year  his  features  seemed  to 
become  more  and  more  fixed  and  his  face  became 
like  a  spectral  mask  of  pallor,  with  the  look  in  the 
eyes  a  little  shy  under  the  lashes,  as  with  a  timorous, 
bashful  and  at  the  same  time  deep  inner  conceal- 
ment of  invisible,  silent  things.  .  .  .  Now  that  his 
mother  had  come  to  fetch  him  from  the  room  where 
he  sat  reading,  he  came  in  with  her,  evidently 
nervous  about  the  coming  talk  with  Addie.  But 
Addie  said: 

*'  I  ought  really  to  be  going  out,  Aunt.  .  .  . 
Alex,  can  you  go  with  me  part  of  the  way?  Then 
we  can  talk  things  over  as  we  walk.  The  roads  are 
too  wet  for  cycling." 

Addie's  eyes  and  voice  set  Adeline's  mind  at  ease» 


76  DR.  ADRIAAN 

as  though  he  were  telling  her  that  it  would  be  all 
right  at  the  Merchants'  School.   .    .    . 

The  cousins  left  the  house  together.  The  trees 
dripped  with  water;  and  the  swift  and  angry  wind 
chased  the  great  clouds  farther  in  one  direction; 
but  the  sky  remained  grey  and  lowering.  The  far- 
stretching,  straight  country-roads  vanished  at  last  in 
a  melancholy  drab  mist;  and  the  two  young  men 
at  first  wallced  along  without  a  word. 

"  Well,  I  went  and  enquired  for  you  yesterday," 
said  Addie,  at  last.  "  You  can  go  in  for  your  exam, 
Alex  .  .  .  and  you  can  go  on  working  there  for 
some  time  yet.  ...  I  hope  things  will  go  better 
this  time,  old  chap.  .  .  .  You're  nearly  twenty 
now.   ...   If  they  don't  ..." 

He  made  a  vague  gesture ;  and  Alex  took  his  arm : 

"  It's  awfully  good  of  you,  Addie,  to  take  so 
much  trouble  about  me.  I  too  hope  .  .  .  that 
things  will  go  right   .    .    .   this  time.   ..." 

"  Mamma  would  have  liked  to  see  you  in  the 
army." 

"  Still,  I'm  really  not  cut  out  for  a  soldier.  .  .  . 
It's  a  pity  I  didn't  think  of  it  before  I  went  to 
Alkmaar.  .  .  .  But,  when  I  was  there  I  felt  it 
at  once:  there's  nothing  of  the  soldier  about  me." 

"  And  in  that  way  years  were  lost.  .  .  .  Well, 
I  do  hope  that  now,  when  you're  at  the  Merchants' 
School,  you  won't  suddenly  discover  .  .  .  that 
you're  not  cut  out  for  a  business-man  .  .  .  that 
you're  not  fit  for  '  trade.'.  .  .  .  You  can  become  a 
consul,  you  know." 

"  Yes   .    .    .   perhaps   ..." 

"  It's  a  pity,  Alex,  that  you  don't  know  things  for 
certain  in  your  own  mind  .  .  .  that  you  have  no 
settled  ideas.   ..." 

"Yes  .    .    .  that's  just  it!   .    .    ." 

"  But  you  must  become  something,  mustn't  you? 


DR.  ADRIAAN  77 

You  have  no  money,  you  fellows;  and,  even  if  you 
had  ...  a  man  must  be  something  ...  in 
order  to  do  any  or  get  any  happiness  out  of  life 
.    .    .   for  himself  and  those  about  him.   .    .    ." 

"Yes,Addie.   ..." 

"  Promise  me  now,  old  chap,  to  do  your  best. 
.  .  .  You  see,  I'm  playing  the  father  to  all  of 
you,  even  though  I'm  only  six  years  older  than  you 
are.  I  feel  a  sort  of  father  to  you  .  .  .  and  I 
should  like  to  see  you  all  happy  .  .  .  and  pros- 
perous. .  .  .  But  you  must  help  me,  Alex.  Show 
a  little  energy.  If  you  hadn't  thrown  up  the  sponge 
at  once  at  Alkmaar,  you'd  almost  have  had  your 
commission  by  now.   ..." 

"Yes.   ..." 

"  Like  your  father.  Mamma  would  have  liked 
that.  But  we  won't  talk  about  it  any  more  and 
we'll  hope  that  things  will  go  better  at  Amster- 
dam.  ..." 

"  Addie   .    .    .   do  you  remember  Papa  well  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do." 

"  So  do  I.  .  .  .  I  was  eight  years  old,  when  he 
died.   .    .    .    I  even  remember   ..." 

"What?"  ^ 

"  That  evening  .  .  .  though  I  didn't  understand 
at  the  time  .  .  .  why  Mamma  cried  and  screamed 
like  that  ...  or  why  Aunt  Constance  and  Uncle 
Henri  were  there.  ...  It  was  not  until  later,  oh, 
years  later,  that  I  understood!  .  .  .  But  I  saw 
...  I  saw  Papa  lying  .  .  .  with  blood  all 
round  him;  and  that's  a  thing  which  always  .  .  . 
always  .  .  .  hovers  before  my  eyes.  I'm  always 
seeing  it,  Addie!  .  .  .  Tell  me,  Addie,  do  you 
know  why  Papa  did  it?  .  .  .  There  was  nothing, 
surely,  to  make  him  so  unhappy  as  all  that?  " 

"  He  was  very  ill." 

"But  not  incurably?" 


78  DR.  ADRIAAN 

"  He  thought  himself  incurable." 

"Still,  he  was  strong?" 

"  Physically." 

"  He  was  like  Guy,  wasn't  he?  " 

"  Yes,  Guy  is  very  like  him,  to  look  at.   .    .    . 
He  was  tall,  broad,  fair-haired   ..." 

"  Yes,  that's  how  I  remember  him.  I  was  eight 
years  old  then." 

*'  You  were  a  jolly  little  tribe." 

"  And  now  we're  nothing  but  a  burden  ...  to 
you.   •        ."     . 

"  Nonsense,  it's  not  as  bad  as  that!  " 

"  I  hope  things'll  go  better  .  .  .  Addie  .  .  . 
at  Amsterdam.   ..." 

"Why  aren't  you  more  talkative,  Alex?  .  .  . 
You  haven't  been  for  a  long  time." 

"Haven't  I?" 

"  You  never  talk,  at  home  ...  to  the  others. 
Only  once  in  a  way  to  me  .  .  .  when  we  are  alone. 
It  was  after  Alkmaar  that  you  became  so  silent.  It 
wasn't  surely  because  I  was  angry  at  the  time?" 

"  Perhaps,  partly   ..." 

"Well?" 

"  I  daren't  tell  you." 

"  Tell  me,  Alex,  if  there  is  anything  I  can  do  for 
you." 

"  You  do  so  much  as  it  is,  Addie.  .  .  .  You  do 
everything." 

"  But  speak  quite  openly.  Perhaps  there  is  some- 
thing more  that  I  can  do  for  you." 

"  No,  what  could  there' be?  " 

"  Something's  upsetting  you." 

"No   .    .    ." 

"  You're  unhappy." 

"No   .    .    ." 

"  You're  so  reserved." 

"  I   .    .    .   never  talk  much." 


DR.  ADRIAAN  79 

"Try  and  trust  me,  Alex." 

"  I  do  trust  you." 

"  Well,  then,  talk  to  me." 

"  But  I    .    .    .   I've  nothing  to  tell  you,  Addle." 

"  I  know,  Alex,  that  you  must  have  something  to 
tell  me.   ..." 

"No.   .    .    ." 

"  I  know  it,  Alex." 

"  No,  Addie,  really.  .  .  .  I've  nothing  to  tell 
you.   .    .    ."  . 

The  lad  tried  to  release  his  arm  from  Addie's, 
but  Addie  held  him  tight : 

"  Walk  a  bit  more  with  me." 

"  Where  are  you  going?  " 

"  I  have  a  couple  of  patients  to  see.  .  .  . 
Take  me  there,  Alex  .  .  .  and  speak,  speak 
openly.    .    .    ." 

"  I  can't  speak." 

"  Then  try  and  find  your  words.     I'll  help  you." 

"  Not  to-day  .  .  .  not  to-day,  Addie,  out  here, 
in  the  roads.  .  .  .  Perhaps  another  time  .  .  . 
indoors." 

"  Very  well,  then,  another  time,  indoors.  I'll 
keep  you  to  your  word.  And  now  let's  talk  of 
nothing  but  the  Merchants'  School.   ..." 

And,  with  Alex  still  hanging  on  his  arm,  he  told 
him  about  the  head-master,  the  staff,  the  lessons 
there  .  .  .  making  a  point  of  holding  out  hopes 
to  Alex  that  everything  would  go  easily  and 
smoothly.  Did  Addie  not  know,  did  he  not  diagnose 
that  the  boy  was  so  terribly  afraid  of  life,  of  the 
days  to  come,  because  a  twilight  had  always  con- 
tinued to  press  down  upon  him,  the  twilight  of  his 
father's  suicide?  ...  It  had  given  the  child  a  fit 
of  shuddering  in  so  far  as  he  had  realized  it  at 
the  time ;  and  things  had  suddenly  grown  dark,  about 
his  child-soul;  and,  when  the  power  of  thought  had 


8o  DR.  ADRIAAN 

developed  in  him  later,  there  had  always  remained 
the  fear  in  that  darkness,  because  the  unconscious 
life  went  on  daily  .  .  .  and  because  his  father — 
why,  why? — had  torn  himself  out  of  the  unconscious 
life  and  committed  suicide.  .  .  .  That? — though 
Alex  had  not  spoken — ^was  how  Addie  diagnosed 
him,  that  was  how  he  really  diagnosed  his  state, 
with  that  strange  look  of  penetration,  with  that 
strange  vision.  .  .  .  And,  when  he  looked  into 
another  in  this  way,  he  no  longer  thought  of  himself, 
his  self-insufficiency  fell  away  from  him  and  he 
seemed  to  know  on  the  other's  behalf,  to  know 
surely  and  positively,  to  know  with  instinctive  know- 
ledge ...  as  he  never  knew  things  for  him- 
self.  ... 

While  they  walked  on,  arm  in  arm,  he  thought 
that  the  boy's  heavy  step  was  becoming  more 
rhythmical  and  even,  that  his  answers — now  that 
they  went  on  talking  about  Amsterdam  and  the 
master  in  whose  house  he  would  be — were  becoming 
firmer,  as  though  he  were  taking  greater  interest. 
.  .  .  There  was  no  note  of  doubt  in  Addie's  voice : 
his  voice  made  the  two  years'  schooling  at  Amster- 
dam, the  whole  subsequent  life  as  a  busy,  hard- 
working man,  stand  out  clear  in  the  mist  that  hung 
under  the  trees  and  over  the  roads,  made  it  all  take 
on  bright  colours  as  a  life  spreading  open_  with 
unclouded  horizons  of  human  destiny,  as  though  all 
the  unconscious  life  would  run  easily  along  ordered 
lines.  .  .  .  He  himself  had  never  known  that  fear 
of  the  days  to  come,  because  he  had  seen  his  goal 
before  him  in  the  future.  Yet  why,  then,  that 
morbid  sense  of  insufficiency?   .    .    . 

He  refused  to  think  of  it;  and  at  once  it  passed 
from  him  like  a  ghost.  Even  after  his  sleepless 
night,  he  now  felt  the  energy  circulating  strongly 
within  him,  felt  the  magic  pouring  out  of  him  as 


DR.  ADRIAAN  8i 

vital  warmth.  He  must  make  that  boy  by  his  side 
realize  the  life  before  him,  he  must  take  away  his 
fear  of  the  future.  An  unknown  force  inside  him 
ordained  that  he  should  make  the  future  shine  with 
hope  and  promise  for  this  boy,  ordained  that  he 
should  purge  the  days  to  come  of  their  sombre 
terror. 

And,  when  he  had  taken  leave  of  Alex,  because 
he  did  not  wish  him  to  know  where  his  patients 
lived,  the  lad  went  back  easier  in  his  mind,  with 
his  fears  pressing  less  heavily  upon  him,  with  the 
sullen  sky  growing  gradually  brighter  .  .  .  how- 
ever much  he  might  have  to  think  always  of  his 
father,  however  much  he  had  to  see  his  father's 
blood-stained  corpse  daily  more  and  more  clearly 
before  his  eyes.   .    .    . 


CHAPTER  VIII 

The  household  took  its  everyday  course  of  a 
morning:  the  everyday  life,  driven  indoors  by  the 
merciless  winter,  the  grey  skies  and  blustering  wind, 
rolled  on  softly  and  evenly  in  the  rooms  and  pas- 
sages of  the  big  house.  Not  much  came  from  out- 
side, where  the  great  trees  in  the  garden  dripped 
with  chill  rain;  nothing  to  stir  the  big  house,  which 
stood  there  like  a  great  lonely  block  on  the  villa- 
road,  amid  the  sombre  mystery  of  its  wind-blown 
trees.  For  the  occupants  of  the  big,  gloomy  house 
had  made  as  few  acquaintances  as  possible  among 
their  neighbours,  though  in  the  spring  and  summer 
Gerdy  would  take  her  racket  daily  to  the  tennis- 
club.  ...  In  the  winter,  it  was  a  quiet  life  indoors, 
varied  only  by  a  walk,  or  a  visit  to  a  sick  or  poor 
neighbour,  a  quiet  life  between  the  walls  of  the  big 
rooms,  with  the  wind  tapping  at  the  window- 
panes.   .    .    , 

The  old  grandmother  sat  mostly  in  the  conserva- 
tory and  looked  out  into  the  garden,  sagely  nodding^ 
her  silver-grey  head.  She  no  longer  recognized  all 
the  children  and  as  a  rule  thought  herself  back  at 
Buitenzorg,  in  the  midst  of  her  own  family;  even 
when  Klaasje  sat  playing  at  her  feet,  she  would 
think  that  it  was  little  Gertrude,  Gertrude  who  had 
died,  as  a  child,  at  Buitenzorg.  .  .  .  Constance,  a 
zealous  housewife,  active  despite  her  fifty-five  years, 
moved  about  the  house  incessantly  during  the  morn- 
ing, with  Marietje  or  Adeletie  to  help  her.  Twenty- 
two  and  twenty-one  respectively,  they  were  always 
with  Constance:  Marietje  already  full  of  unselfish 

82 


DR.  ADRIAAN  83 

consideration  and  Adeletje  delicate,  not  speaking 
much,  sitting  with  her  needlework  upstairs  in  their 
room;  and,  because  of  Alex'  strange  melancholy,  it 
was  only  Guy  and  Gerdy  that  represented  joyous, 
healthy  youth  in  the  house,  that  rich  health  and 
radiance  which  reminded  Constance  of  their  father, 
of  her  brother  Gerrit,  who  had  been  so  noisy,  broad 
and  strong  until  he  fell  ill,  too  ill  to  go  on 
living.   .    .    . 

Klaasje  was  very  troublesome  in  the  mornings, 
very  restless,  full  of  freaks  and  cranks,  always 
bothering  the  others  to  play  with  her  or  at  least 
to  make  a  fuss  over  her;  and  Constance  was  so  sorry 
that  Klaasje  could  not  be  upstairs  in  the  nursery 
with  Jetje  and  Constant,  but  Mathilde  would  not 
have  her  there.  And  the  poor,  innocent  child, 
twelve  years  old  by  now,  was  jealous  of  Constant 
and  Jetje  and  hated  Mathilde,  as  though,  uncon- 
sciously, she  felt  in  the  children  a  childishness  that 
was  natural  and  as  though  she  knew  that,  after 
all,  she  herself  was  much  too  big  to  play  about 
like  that  and  build  houses  with  cards  and 
dominoes.    .    .    . 

Above  the  great  sombre  house,  against  the  great 
sombre  skies  and  inside  the  house  itself  there  was 
always  a  strange  melancholy  of  things  that  had 
been.  ...  It  floated  through  the  passages  and 
creaked  in  the  furniture;  it  could  be  felt  in  the  old 
grandmother's  sitting  at  the  conservatory-window, 
in  the  pale,  unchangingly  sad  face  of  Adeline,  who 
was  so  helpless;  it  appeared  in  the  silent  sorrow  of 
Emilie,  who  was  spiritless  and  never  spoke  much 
these  days.  In  the  sombre  house  they  sat  or  moved 
in  an  atmosphere  of  bygone  things  which  mingled 
with  the  atmosphere  of  the  house  itself,  as  though 
they  were  small,  pale  souls,  broken  by  life  ^  and 
sheltering  in  the  safe  house,  now  that  the  winter 


84  DR.  ADRIAAN 

seemed  endless  and  the  heavy  clouds  were  so  op- 
pressive. ...  A  cloud  of  recollection  hung  over 
the  old  woman,  as  she  sat  silently  staring,  as  she 
played  with  Klaasje,  who  would  never  grow  up;  a 
last  reflexion  of  sombre  tragedy  lingered  around  the 
simple  mother  of  so  many  children,  as  though  her 
husband's  suicide  still  struck  her  with  tragic  wonder 
that  life  could  strike  so  suddenly  and  fiercely  and 
cruelly;  it  was  as  though  a  strange  psychological 
secret  slumbered  in  the  sad  eyes  of  Emilie,  who  was 
still  a  young  woman ;  a  secret  which  she  would  never 
speak.   .    .    . 

Sombre  was  the  house  and  sombre  the  everlasting 
wind  that  blew  around  it;  full  of  strange  voices,  of 
things  of  long  ago;  and  they  did  not  brighten  the 
house,  those  three  sad,  silent  women,  so  different 
in  age,  so  sombre  in  their  equal  melancholy.  They 
did  not  brighten  the  morning  which  they  spent  there 
together,  in  the  house  on  the  long,  rain-swept  road; 
and  it  was  Constance  herself,  followed  quietly  by 
Marietje  or  Adeletje,  who  woke  the  house,  stairs  and 
passages  to  life  with  her  active  footfall  and  the 
shrill  rattle  of  her  keys.  .  .  .  The  sound  of  a  piano 
came  harshly  from  Mathilde's  sitting-room  upstairs; 
and  it  had  only  to  be  heard  to  make  the  other  piano 
in  the  drawing-room  downstairs  cry  out  in  pain 
under  Gerdy's  furious  little  fingers,  until  Constance 
was  startled  at  so  much  noise  and  hurriedly  whis- 
pered to  Marietje: 

"  Do  tell  Gerdy  not  to  play  when  Mathilde  is 
playing  upstairs !   .    .    . " 

Marietje  would  then  rush  to  the  drawing-room 
and  rebuke  Gerdy;  and,  because  it  was  Aunt  Con- 
stance' request,  Gerdy's  piano  suddenly  fell  silenced, 
leaving  Mathilde's  runs  and  flourishes  to  triumph 
overhead. 

The  children  drove  out  daily  with  their  nurse  in 


DR.  ADRIAAN  85 

the  governess-court,  whatever  the  weather:  it  was 
Addie's  principle  and  they  throve  on  it;  and  their 
youthfulness,  stammering  its  first  words,  was  like  a 
bright,  rosy  dawn  of  the  future,  as  they  went  along 
the  sombre  stairs  and  dark  passages  and  rooms, 
casting  a  sudden  golden  radiance  in  that  atmosphere 
of  the  past,  as  though  they  were  suddenly  powdering 
through  the  brown  of  the  shadows,  as  though  they 
were  sprinkling  the  sound  of  children's  voices 
through  the  brown  air,  which  had  not  caught  a  child- 
ish sound  for  so  many  years.   .    .    . 

When  Addie  was  out,  visiting  his  patients.  Van 
der  Welcke  remained  in  his  room,  reading  and 
smoking,  Uncle  Jupiter,  as  Gerdy  called  him,  be- 
cause he  usually  sat  enveloped  in  the  blue  clouds  of 
his  cigarette;  and  Guy  did  a  little  work,  for  his 
examination  as  a  clerk  in  the  postal  service,  except 
when  he  went  to  Utrecht,  "^here  he  was  receiving 
private  tuition  in  geography.  But  when  he  was 
working  at  home,  in  his  little  room,  up  on  the  third 
floor,  his  young,  healthy  restlessness  constantly  made 
him  get  up  and  run  downstairs,  to  borrow  an  atlas 
of  Van  der  Welcke,  hang  round  Uncle  Henri  for  a 
bit,  smoke  a  cigarette  with  him,  then  go  back  up- 
stairs. He  would  look  at  his  books  and  maps  for 
three  minutes  and  then  jump  up  again,  stretch  him- 
self, take  up  his  dumb-bells,  feeling  stiff  from  the 
long  sitting,  and  go  downstairs  once  more. 

Constance  met  him  in  the  hall: 

"  Aren't  you  working,  Guy?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am,  Auntie.    Where  are  you  off  to?  " 

"  To  the  store-cupboard." 

He  went  with  her  and  Marietje  to  the  store- 
cupboard,  conducted  a  raid  among  the  almonds  and 
raisins,  talked  a  lot  of  nonsense  and  made  Constance 
laugh,  until  she  said: 

"  Come  on,  Guy  .    .    .   run  along  upstairs." 


86  DR.  ADRIAAN 

But,  because  Adeletje  looked  after  the  flowers  in 
the  conservatory  and  he  saw  her  carrying  a  watering- 
can,  he  assisted  her  and  even  sponged  the  leaves  of 
an  aralia,  while  Klaasje  played  at  Grandmamma's 
feet,  building  houses  with  cards,  which  she  loved  for 
the  shrill  colours  of  the  court-cards,  and  aces  ^  and 
for  the  pretty  figures  of  hearts  and  diamonds,  clubs 
and  spades.  He  built  a  house  for  her;  he  teased 
Gerdy,  who  was  back  at  her  piano,  now  that 
Mathilde  had  left  off  overhead,  until  Truitje  came 
to  lay  the  table  for  lunch  and  he  raced  up  three 
flights  of  stairs,  terrified,  to  work  at  all  costs  .  .  . 
hang  it  all,  yes,  to  work!  .  .  .  He  sat  with  his 
hands  to  his  ears,  so  as  not  to  hear,  and  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  maps ;  and,  when  the  luncheon-bell  rang, 
he  deliberately  waited  a  few  minutes,  pretended  to 
himself  to  be  annoyed  because  a  morning  passed  so 
quickly  and  never  came  down  to  lunch  less  than  five 
minutes  late,  making  the  excuse  that  he  had  been 
working  so  hard.   .    .    . 

Now,  in  the  winter,  the  short  days  passed  in  . 
peaceful,  sombre  domesticity:  in  the  afternoon,  Con- 
stance went  for  a  walk  or  to  see  a  poor  person, 
generally  with  Adeletje;  paying  or  receiving  a  visit 
was  (juite  an  event,  which  happened  only  three  or 
four  times  during  the  winter;  only  Gerdy  sometimes 
entertained  her  tennis-club  and  gave  the  members 
tea,  upstairs  in  the  girls'  sitting-room,  as  though 
striving  for  a  little  sociability  from  the  outside. 
.  .  .  And,  in  the  yellow,  circle  of  light  shed  by  the 
lamps,  the  evening  drowsed  on  gently  after  dinner, 
with  the  wind  whistling  round  the  house,  with 
Gerdy's  bustle  amid  the  chink  of  her  tea-things,'^ 
with  Guy  and  Adeletje  rattling  the  dice :  v 

"  Two  and  five.   ..." 

*  The  aces  in  Dutch  packs  of  cards  are  set  in  brightly-coloured 
pictures,  usually  town-views. 


DR.  ADRIAAN  87 

"  Double  six.  .  .  .  Once  more.  .  .  .  Imperial. 
.    .    .   Once  more.   .    .    .   Three  and  five.   .    .    ." 

And  Mathilde  sat  with  a  book  in  her  hands,  her 
eyes  expressing  a  weight  of  silent  boredom,  while 
the  room  seemed  full  of  things  of  the  past,  and  the 
voice  of  the  wind  outside  and  the  mourning  women — 
Granny,  Adeline,  Emilie — like  three  generations  of 
dreaming  melancholy  depressed  her  until  Addie 
came  in,  for  a  brief  hour,  before  going  upstairs 
again  to  his  reading.   .    .    . 


CHAPTER  IX 

It  was  raining  on  the  morning  when  Adolphine 
alighted  at  Zeist-Driebergen  and  hurried  to  the 
tram  which  was  on  the  point  of  leaving.  She  looked 
very  weary  and  lean,  with  bitter  lines  round  her  thin, 
spiteful  lips  and  a  reproach  in  her  sharp  eyes;  and 
suddenly  she  reflected  that  she  was  sorry  that  she 
had  not  put  on  a  better  cloak. 

"  Conductor,  will  you  stop  at  Baron  van  der 
Welcke's  villa,  please?  " 

"  We  don't  pass  the  villa,  ma'am,  but  it's  quite 
close  to  the  road." 

"  Then  will  you  tell  me  where  to  get  out?  " 

The  conductor  promised ;  and  Adolphine  suddenly 
became  very  uncertain  of  herself.  All  those  years, 
all  the  years  that  Constance  had  been  living  at 
Driebergen,  she  had  never  been  once  to  look  them 
up:  really  out  of  anger,  because  they  had  stolen 
Mamma,  because  Mamma  had  gone  to  live  with 
them.  In  all  those  years,  she  had  never  seen  her 
mother,  had  seen  Constance  only  once  and  again, 
at  Baarn,  after  Bertha's  death;  at  the  Hague,  casu- 
ally, exchanging  a  few  words  with  her  when  they 
met,  by  accident,  at  Aunt  Lot's;  and  Addie  also 
she  had  seen  but  very  seldom.  She  was  sorry  for 
it  now,  it  looked  so  strange,  to  arrive  like  this,  all 
of  a  sudden;  and  then  she  had  not  announced  her 
coming,  because  she  disliked  writing  the  letter. 
...  If  only  Constance  wasn't  out,  or  away,  or 
perhaps  gone  to  Utrecht  or  Amsterdam  for  a  day's 
shopping  .    .    .  which  was  possible.   .    .    .  She  was 

88 


DR.  ADRIAAN  89 

coming  quite  like  a  stranger;  and  her  heart  was 
thumping;  and  she  was  almost  sorry  now  that  she 
had  taken  this  step.     There  were  plenty  of  other 
doctors  besides  Addie,  who  was  still  such  an  inex- 
perienced boy,  and  yet  .    .    .   and  yet  ...   In  her 
unstrung  condition,  the  tears  came  to  her  eyes  and 
she  felt  overcome  with  her  sorrow,  with  all  the 
bitterness  of  the  last  few  melancholy  years.    It  was 
all  very  sad  at  home:  Van  Saetzema,  retired  on  a 
pension  and  now  ailing   .    .    .   with  cancer  in  the 
stomach;  the  boys — Jaap  in  the  Indian  Civil,  Chris 
in   the   army,    Piet   a   midshipman — never   writing 
home,  now  that  they  no  longer  needed  the  paternal 
house;  Caroline  soured  by  not  marrying;  and  the 
youngest,  Marietje,  so  weak  lately,  so  queer,  that 
Adolphine   did  not  know  what   to   do   with   her  I 
Added  to  all  this,  because,  notwithstanding  her  econ- 
omy, they  had  lived  on  too  lavish  a  scale  in  her  striv- 
ing after  Hague  grandeur,  they  had  run  into  debt 
and  were  now  living  in  a  small  house,  really  vegeta- 
ting, without  seeing  a  spark  of  grandeur  gleaming 
before  their  eyes.     It  was  all  over,  there  was  no- 
thing left  for  them:  it  was  all  loneliness  and  dying 
off   .    .    .   relations  and  friends ;  there  was  no  family 
circle  left  at  the  Hague  and  it  seemed  as  though 
such  family-circle  as  had  survived  was  now  united — 
how  strange! — in  Van  der  Welcke  and  Constance' 
house   at   Driebcrgen.   .    .    .  Adolphine   had   long 
cherished  a  wonderful  jealousy  at  this,  as  though, 
after  Van  Naghel's  death  and  Bertha's,  it  ought 
to  be  her  house  which  the  family,  however  greatly 
dispersed,   would  look  upon   as  the   family-house. 
...   It  was  not  that  she  was  hospitable  by  nature, 
but  her  vanity  was  injured;  and  to  satisfy  this  she 
would  not  have  objected  even  to  taking  Mamma  to 
live  with  her,  however  doting  and  tiresome  Mamma 
might  have  become.     But  there  had  never  been  any 


90  DR.  ADRIAAN 

question  of  that.  No,  Mamma  had  at  once  gone 
to  Constance ;  and  Adolphine  could  feel,  by  the  way 
in  which  Paul,  Dorine,  the  Ruyvenaers  and  even 
Karel  and  Cateau  spoke,  that  they  all,  with  varying 
degrees  of  affection,  looked  upon  Van  der  Welcke's 
house  at  Driebergen  as  still  remaining  the  family- 
centre!  A  nice  state  of  affairs  1  Adolphine  was 
angry  now,  because  she  never  succeeded  in  anything, 
because  she  never  had  succeeded.  .  .  .  And  now 
she  had  actually  set  out  for  Driebergen,  with  the 
very  object  of  asking  those  two,  Constance  and  Van 
der  Welcke,  to  do  her  a  favour,  though  she  refused 
as  yet  to  picture  it  so  clearly  as  such.   .    .    . 

She  was  very  nervous  when  the  conductor,  at  a 
halt,  told  her  to  get  down,  showed  her  a  road, 
pointed  to  a  house  distantly  visible  between  the  bare, 
dripping  trees.  The  great  block  loomed  massive- 
grey  through  the  black  boughs;  the  outline  of  the 
long,  straight  roof  stood  out  harsh  and  unwelcoming 
against  the  grey  winter  sky.  It  was  only  the  fancy 
of  overstrung  nerves;  but  in  the  windows  of  the 
front,  with  their  reflecting  panes  and  blinds  half 
down,  Adolphine  seemed  to  feel  reserve,  repellence, 
pride,  grudge,  refusal.  ...  It  all  shot  very 
quickly  through  her,  made  her  hesitate  to  go  on 
.  .  .  and  yet,  now  that  she  had  come  so  far,  now 
that  she  was  approaching  the  gate  of  the  front- 
garden,  she  realized  that  it  was  too  late,  that  she 
must  go  on,  round  the  beds  with  the  straw-wrapped 
roses;  and  she  rang  at  the  great  gloomy  front-door. 
She  rang  shyly,  too  softly;  the  bell  did  not  sound; 
and  she  stood  waiting  under  her  dripping  umbrella. 
Her  heart  was  beating  as  she  pulled  a  second  time, 
rather  harder,  in  spite  of  herself.  .  .  .  Truitje 
now  opened  the  door  and  she  recognized  her  as  the 
maid,  the  same  maid,  for  whom  Constance  had  rung, 
years  and  years  ago,  in  the  Kerkhoflaan,  to  show 


DR.  ADRIAAN  91 

her  the  door,  after  their  last  private  interview.  She 
was  surprised  to  see  the  girl,  looking  older,  but  still 
recognizable;  and,  because  her  thoughts  were  car- 
ried back  to  so  many  years  ago,  the  sight  gave  her 
such  a  sense  of  hesitation  that  she  could  hardly 
speak,  especially  as  Truitje,  equally  surprised,  was 
also  staring  her  in  the  eyes.  Adolphine  felt  that  she 
was  going  to  stammer,  now  that  she  had  to  open 
her  lips;  but  there  was  no  way  out  of  it;  the  ques- 
tion must  be  put : 

"  Is  .  .  .is  me-mevrouw  ...  is  mevrouw  at 
home?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am   .    .    .  mevrouw's  at  home." 

Adolphine  had  entered  trembling;  and  the  maid 
closed  the  door  behind  her  and  took  her  wet  um- 
brella from  her.  Standing  on  the  mat,  she  saw  the 
long  hall  before  her,  with  the  brown  doors,  the 
antique  cabinet,  the  portraits  and  engravings.  It 
gave  her  the  impression  of  a  very  sober  and  serious 
Dutch  house,  but  an  impression,  too,  of  reserve, 
repellence,  pride,  grudge  and  refusal.  .  .  .  And, 
with  her  eyes  anxiously  fixed  on  the  open  oak  door 
at  the  end  of  the  hall,  she  stammered  once  more 
almost  imploringly,  with  an  irresolution  in  her  voice 
which  she  could  not  overcome : 

"  I'm  not   .    .    .   I'm  not  disturbing  her?" 

"  Not  at  all,  ma'am:  pray  come  in." 

Then  the  door  of  the  drawing-room  opened  and 
Constance  herself  stood  before  her: 

"Adolphine!" 

There  was  surprise  in  her  voice,  if  not  gladness : 
surprise  at  finding  Adolphine  there,  Adolphine 
whom  she  had  never  seen  at  Driebergen,  whom  she 
had  never  seen  lately,  for  the  matter  of  that,  except 
once  or  twice,  casually,  at  the  Hague  or  Baam 
.    .    .   when  poor  Bertha  had  died. 

"Adolphine!" 


92  DR.  ADRIAAN 

"  I've  come  to  see  how  you  are  getting  on,  Con- 
stance  .    .    .  you  and   .    .    .   and  Mamma.   ..." 

Adolphine's  voice  wavered,  jerkily,  beseechingly, 
uncertain  of  itself;  and  it  was  so  strange  for  Con- 
stance to  see  Adolphine,  to  hear  her  uttering  such 
words,  in  so  hesitating  a  voice,  that  she  was  put  out 
for  a  moment  and  could  not  frame  a  phrase  of 
welcome,  could  not  even  make  a  show  of  cordiality. 
But  she  saw  that  the  door  at  the  end  of  the  hall 
stood  ajar;  and  she  said  to  Truitje,  almost 
angrily : 

"Truitje,  why  is  that  door  open  again?  You 
know  I  want  it  shut." 

"  It  opens  sometimes  with  the  draught,  ma'am," 
replied  the  maid. 

Truitje  closed  the  door  and  went  back  to  the 
kitchen;  and  the  two  sisters  were  left  alone. 

"  Come  in,  Adolphine." 

"  I'm  not  disturbing  you  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not.    I'm  glad  to  see  you  again." 

She  forced  a  note  of  geniality  into  her  voice. 

"  We  haven't  met  for  years,"  said  Adolphine,  in 
hesitating  excuse. 

"  Not  for  ever  so  long.  I  go  to  the  Hague  so 
seldom.    Here's  Mamma." 

The  old  woman  was  in  the  conservatory,  gazing 
out  of  the  window. 

"  Mamma ! "  said  Adolphine,  with  emotion. 
"  Mamma !  " 

She  went  nearer : 

"Good-morning,  Mamma.    ..." 

The  old  woman  looked  at  her  vacantly: 

"  It's  windy,"  she  said.  "  The  garden  is  full  of 
big  branches.   ..." 

"  Mamma,"  said  Constance,  "  here's  Adolphine 
come  to  see  you." 

The  old  woman  did  not  recognize  her  daughter. 


DR.  ADRIAAN  93 

She  looked  at  Adolphine  vacantly  and  indifferently. 
Then  she  said: 

"  It's  not  right  for  Gertrude  to  run  about  in  the 
garden  when  it's  so  windy.  .  .  .  There  are  big 
branches  falling  from  the  trees." 

"  No,  Mamma,  I'll  go  and  fetch  her  in." 

"  Gertrude?  "  asked  Adolphine, 

"  She  means  our  poor  Klaasje,"  whispered  Con- 
stance. 

"  But  doesn't  Mamma  know  me?" 

*'  Not  .  .  .  just  now.  She'll  recognize  you 
presently.   .    .    .   Mamma,  don't  you  know  Phine?  " 

*'  Phine  ?  "  repeated  the  old  lady. 

*'  Adolphine,  Mamma.  Look,  she's  come  to  give 
you  a  kiss." 

"  She's  dead,"  said  the  old  woman   .    .    . 

"  Mamma !  Adolphine  dead?  Look,  she's 
here!'' 

The  old  lady  shook  her  head: 

"  She's  dead,"  she  said,  unshakably.  "  She  died 
,.    .    .  years  ago." 

Adolphine  turned  her  head  away  and  began  to 
sob. 

*'  She'll  recognize  you  presently,"  said  Constance, 
gently,  consoling  her.  "  She's  sure  to  know  you 
presently.    Adolphine,  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you." 

But  Adolphine  was  sobbing  violently: 

"  Mamma  doesn't  .    .    .   know  me !  " 

"  My  dear,  she  hasn't  seen  you  for  so  long.  I 
know  she'll  recognize  you  later  on.  .  .  .  You're 
staying  to  lunch,  of  course.   ..." 

"  I  .  .  .  should  like  to.  .  .  .  Constance,  I've 
come  to   .    .    ." 

"Yes?" 

"  To  ask  something.  .  .  .  But  presently,  not 
now   .    .    .   I'm  too  much  upset.    .    .    ." 

"  Let  me  help  you  off  with  your  things." 


94  DR.  ADRIAAN 

"  I'm  dreadfully  wet  .    .    .  it's  raining  so.  .    .    .'* 

"  You've  chosen  a  bad  day." 

*'  I  didn't  want  to  wait  any  longer." 

"  Tell  me,  what  is  it,  what  can  I  do  for  you?  " 

"  I  can't  tell  you  yet." 

Gerdy  peeped  round  the  open  door: 

*'  Is  that  Aunt  Adolphine?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Constance. 

Marietje  and  Adeletje  followed: 

"Is  that  .    .    .   Aunt  Adolphine?" 

They  came  in  and  shook  hands. 

"  Is  Klaasje  out  in  the  garden  ? "  asked  Con- 
stance. 

"  I  saw  her  running  about  just  now." 

"  You  have  a  busy  household  .  .  .  Constance," 
said  Adolphine,  waveringly. 

"  Yes,"  said  Constance,  smihng,  "  and  yet  I 
should  miss  them  if  they  weren't  there.  All  my 
daughters   .    .    .   and  my  boys." 

The  girls  stood  round  her:  Gerdy,  looking  very 
handsome;  Adeletje,  weak  and  pale;  and  Marietje, 
tall,  lank  and  plain. 

"  And  then  you've  got  .  .  .  Emilie  .  .  .  and 
Adeline,"  said  Adolphine,  counting  them  shyly, 

"  Yes,"  said  Constance.  "  We  all  keep  together 
now.  .  .  .  Children,  Aunt  Adolphine's  staying  to 
lunch." 

Something  in  her  words  seemed  to  ask  the  girls 
to  leave  her  alone  with  Adolphine.  In  the  con- 
servatory, the  old  woman  sat  gazing  up  at  the 
clouds,  which  came  sailing  along  big  and  grey,  and 
she  heard  nothing,  paid  no  attention. 

"  Adolphine,"  said  Constance,  when  they  were 
alone  once  more,  "  we  have  a  moment  before  lunch. 
Come  upstairs  to  my  room,  then  we  sha'n't  be  dis- 
turbed." 

She  put  out  her  hand.     Adolphine  took  it;  and 


DR.  ADRIAAN  95 

Constance  led  her  sister  almost  mechanically 
through  the  passages  and  up  the  stairs. 

"  It's  a  gloomy  house,"  said  Adolphine,  with  a 
shiver  at  the  sight  of  the  oak  doors. 

"  Yes,  it  is  rather  gloomy.  .  .  .  Fortunately,  it's 
large;  there's  plenty  of  space." 

"Really?"  asked  Adolphine,  growing  interested. 
"  Have  you  many  rooms?  " 

"Oh,  a  great  many!  .  .  .  When  the  old  man 
was  alive,  they  were  all  empty.  Now  they  are 
nearly  all  full." 

"Nearly  all?" 

"  Very  nearly.  .  .  .  This  is  my  own  sitting- 
room." 

They  went  in. 

"  It's  the  furniture  from  your  drawing-room  at 
the  Hague,"  said  Adolphine. 

"  Yes.    I  can  imagine  myself  at  the  Hague  here." 

'*  Do  you  like  the  Hague?  " 

"  I'd  rather  live  there  than  here.  But  Henri  and 
Addie  are  attached  to  the  house:  it's  their  family 
house." 

"  They  are  fine,  big  rooms,"  said  Adolphine,  in 
humble  praise.  "  I'm  living  in  a  very  small  house 
now." 

"  Ah,  but  there  are  so  few  of  you  I  " 

"  That's  true." 

"  How's  your  husband?  " 

"  He's  not  very  grand   .    .    .   Marietje  neither." 

"Isn't  she  well?" 

"  No.  She's  very  full  of  nerves.  I  consulted  Dr. 
Berens,  to  ease  my  mind." 

"What  does  he  say?" 

"  He   ...   he  suggested  that   .    .    . " 

"That  what,  Adolphine?"  _ 

"  He  said  .  .  .  that  Addie  was  beginning  to 
make  such  a  name   .    .    .   as  a  nerve-specialist.    He 


96  DR.  ADRIAAN 

advised  me  to  go  to  Addie  .  .  .  and  talk  to  him 
about  Marietje.  Perhaps  one  day,  when  he  comes 
to  the  Hague,  he  might  see  Marietje.  .  .  .  Do 
you  think  he  could  be  persuaded  to,  Constance?  " 

"  Certainly,  Adolphine.  Of  course  he  will, 
gladly." 

"  I  hear  such  good  accounts  of  him  .  .  .  as  a 
doctor." 

"  Yes,  he  is  getting  a  very  big  practice." 

"  And  making  a  lot  of  money.   ..." 

"  Well,  not  so  very  much,  I  believe." 

**  Ah,  perhaps  he's  right,  as  a  young  doctor,  to 
be  reasonable  in  his  charges!  .  .  .  You  see,  Con- 
stance, that   .    .    .   that's  really  why  I  came  down." 

"  You  were  quite  right,  Adolphine.  Addie  will 
be  home  presently  and  then  you  can  talk  to  him 
yourself.  .  .  .  Poor  Marietje:  I'm  sorry  she's  so 
ill.    How  old  is  she  now  ?  " 

"  Twenty-six." 

"  I  remember :  she's  a  year  younger  than  Addie." 

"  Who  would  have  thought,  Constance,  that  you 
would  come  and  live  here  .  .  .  with  Mamma 
.  .  .  and  Adeline  .  .  .  and  the  children?  ... 
But  Mamma  always  liked  you  best.  /  should  have 
been  glad  to  have  Mamma  with  me  .  .  .  but  it's 
better  as  it  is;  our  house  is  so  tiny.  .  .  .  Does 
Addie  come  to  the  Hague  often?  Would  he  be 
able  to  treat  Marietje  regularly?  " 

*'  He  would  go  specially." 

"  He  hypnotizes,  doesn't  he?  " 

"  Very  often,  I  believe." 

"Do  you  like  that?" 

*'  Addie  often  gets  very  remarkable  results." 

"  I  don't  very  much  fancy  it.  I  shouldn't  like  him 
to  hypnotize  Marietje.    But,  if  it's  essential  .    .   ,." 

The  gong  sounded. 

"Is  that  for  lunch?" 


DR.  ADRIAAN  97 

"Yes.    Will  you  come?" 

Van  der  Welcke  and  Addle  were  downstairs. 
They  had  just  come  in,  but  had  heard  from  the  girls 
that  Aunt  Adolphine  was  there ;  and  Van  der  Welcke 
welcomed  her  conventionally.  Oh,  what  fights  they 
had  had  in  the  old  days!  But  so  many  years  had 
passed  since  those  bygone  times;  and  what  did  a 
pressure  of  the  hand  and  a  kind  word  cost?  He 
had  acquired  a  certain  genial  earnestness  in  his  big 
house,  filled  with  his  wife's  family.  He  would  have 
missed  them,  all  those  big  children  .  .  .  even 
though  Guy  and  Gerdy  were  the  only  cheerful  ones. 
.  .  .  But  those  two  were  the  sunshine  of  the 
house;  and  the  others  still  clung  to  him  with  sym- 
pathy: their  gratitude  created  a  sympathetic  at- 
mosphere round  Uncle  Henri.   .    .    . 

At  the  long  luncheon-table,  Marietje  cut  the 
bread-and-butter.  Granny  did  not  sit  at  the  table; 
and  Mathilde  came  down  very  late.  No  one  had 
told  her  that  Aunt  Adolphine  was  there  and  she 
stood  amazed  in  the  doorway  before  bringing  her- 
self to  offer  a  non-committal  greeting.  She  was  aloof 
in  her  manner,  thought  Adolphine,  middle-class,  put 
on  airs  as  she  sat  down.  It  was  striking  how  her 
personality  failed  to  blend  with  that  of  the  others, 
as  though  she  remained  a  stranger  among  them.  In 
the  grey  winter  morning,  hovering  sullenly  along 
the  dark  walls  of  the  dining-room,  she  was  a  fresh, 
handsome  woman;  her  full  face  was  the  colour  of 
milk  and  roses;  her  lines  swelled  with  health. 
Gerdy,  beside  her,  was  nothing  more  than  a  pretty 
little  smiling  thing;  Marietje  and  Adeletje  were  very 
plain:  Marietje  so  lank  and  yellow;  Adeletje  looking 
quite  old  with  her  sickly  face.  Klaasje  was  very 
tiresome,  ate  uncouthly  and  sat  beside  Constance, 
who  kept  on  gently  reproving  her  and  cut  up  her 
bread-and-butter  for  her  as  though  she  were  a  baby. 


98  DR.  ADRIAAN 

Guy  carved  the  cold  beef.  All  of  them  were  silently 
wondering  what  Aunt  Adolphine  had  come  down  for 
and  their  conversation  sounded  constrained;  but  Van 
der  Welcke  talked  nonsense  calmly  with  Guy  and 
Gerdy.  Adolphine,  to  keep  the  pot  boiling,  talked 
about  the  Hague:  Uncle  and  Aunt  Ruyvenaer  and 
the  girls  had  returned  to  India  ever  so  long  ago 
and  were  not  coming  back  to  Holland,  now  that 
Uncle  and  Aunt  were  older  and  preferred  to  live 
in  Java;  Louise  was  living  with  Otto  and  Frances; 
Frances  always  had  something  or  other  the  matter 
with  her;  and  Louise  looked  after  the  house  and 
Hugo  and  Ottelientje,  who  were  now  thirteen  and 
fourteen.  Then  there  were  Karel  and  Cateau, 
Ernst,  Dorine,  Paul.    .    .    . 

"  We  don't  see  much  of  one  another  nowadays," 
said  Adolphine,  sadly.  "  Ah,  Mamma's  Sunday 
evenings !  They  were  very  pleasant,  say  what  you 
like.  We  didn't  always  agree,  perhaps,  but 
still   ..." 

She  started,  became  confused,  pecked  awkwardly 
at  her  food.  She  felt  that  the  illusion  of  an  united 
family — Mamma's  great  illusion  in  the  old  days — 
was  quite  dispelled;  and,  older,  more  melancholy 
and  still  bitter  as  she  was,  she  felt  sad  about  it, 
sad  about  something  which  possibly  she  had  never 
valued  but  which  she  now  missed.  And  she  could 
not  help  feeling  acute  envy  that  Constance  was  living 
in  so  big  a  house  and  harbouring  so  many  relations; 
and  suddenly  she  asked,  sharply: 

*'  Your  house  is  rather  damp,  isn't  it,  Van  der 
Welcke?  "_ 

"  Well,  it's  mostly  on  the  ground-floor,"  said  Van 
der  Welcke,  good-humouredly.  "  And  we've  had  a 
lot  of  rain." 

"  One's  feet  get  so  chilly." 

"  Guy,  give  Auntie  a  footstool." 


DR.  ADRIAAN  99 

Guy  fetched  a  stool;  Adolphine  let  him  push  it 
under  her  feet. 

"  There  are  so  many  trees  round  the  house,"  she 
said.  "  That's  what  makes  it  gloomy  and  chilly. 
You  should  have  them  thinned  out.  ...  It  must 
be  very  lonely,  living  here." 

"Don't  you  see  the  others  regularly?"  asked 
Constance,  trying  to  change  the  subject. 

"  No,  Karel  and  Cateau  pay  me  a  visit  now  and 
again.  It's  not  much  of  a  pleasure  to  anyone :  it's 
never  more  than  a  visit !  "  said  Adolphine,  criticizing 
her  brother  and  sister-in-law  and  forgetting  that,  in 
the  old  days,  she  herself  never  honoured  Constance 
and  Van  der  Welcke  with  more  than  a  *'  visit."  And 
she  went  on,  "  Paul  one  never  sees;  nor  Dorine;  and 
Ernst  .  .  .  you  know  he  has  not  been  very  well 
lately?" 

Constance  gave  a  start : 

"  No,  I  didn't  know.  I  saw  him  only  three  weeks 
ago.  ...  I  wish  he  would  come  and  live  here,  at 
Driebergen,  say  in  a  nice,  bright  room  at  a  good 
boarding-house.  I  really  think  the  country  life 
would  do  him  good  and  he  probably  feels  rather 
lonely  at  the  Hague.  .  .  .  But  he  wouldn't  do  it. 
.  .  .  He's  been  living  all  these  years  in  the  same 
room  and  seems  so  much  attached  to  that  room  that 
he  simply  can't  leave  it  .  .  .  and  yet  he  is  never 
satisfied  with  the  landlady  and  her  brother.  That 
brother  is  his  constant  bugbear.  .  .  .  And  yet  I 
thought  that  he  was  living  quietly  enough.  ...  Is 
he  still  always  calm,  however  self-absorbed  he  may 
be?    You  say  he  hasn't  been  well  lately?  " 

"  Well,  he's  not  as  bad  as  he  was — how  long  ago 
is  it? — ten  or  eleven  years  ago." 

"  Eleven  years." 

"  He's  not  like  that.  But  he  looks  very  queer 
at  times  .    .    .   and  ..." 


lOO  DR.  ADRIAAN 

"  I'll  go  to  the  Hague  to-morrow  and  look  him 
up,"  said  Constance,  with  decision. 

"My  dear!"  said  Adolphine,  in  an  aggrieved 
tone.  "  I  assure  you  that  he's  nothing  out  of  the 
way.  Besides,  we  are  there  ...  if  anything 
should  happen." 

"  He's  living  by  himself  too  much.  I've  thought 
it  for  a  long  time.    And  I  reproach  myself  ..." 

"  I've  seen  Uncle  Ernst  once  or  twice  lately. 
Mamma,"  said  Addie,  to  calm  her.  "  He  was  just 
as  usual;  no  worse.  I  pressed  him  then  to  come  and 
live  at  Driebergen.  He  refused  .  .  .  but  he  was 
quite  calm  about  it." 

"  He  has  not  been  calm  the  last  few  days,"  said 
Adolphine." 

"  I  shall  go  to  the  Hague  to-morrow,"  Constance 
repeated,  tremulously. 

"  Would  you  like  me  to  go?  "  asked  Addie. 

"  Really,  Constance,"  Adolphine  resumed,  in  a 
superior  tone  of  mock  moderation,  "  you  needn't 
get  into  such  a  fluster.  If  there  should  be  anything 
wrong  .  .  .  we're  there  .  .  .  and  Karel  .  .  . 
and  Dorine  and  Paul.  You  can  leave  Ernst  to 
us  quite  safely.  It's  just  as  though  we  didn't 
count!  " 

"  It's  not  that,  Adolphine   .    .    .  but   .    .    . " 

"But  what?" 

"  You  don't  trouble  about  him  .  .  .  and  I  feel 
remorseful  that  I  myself,  lately.  .  .  .  But  I  am 
very  busy  .    .    .   and   ..." 

"Busy?"  echoed  Adolphine,  in  amazement. 
"  Here,  at  Driebergen?  " 

The  atmosphere  of  the  room  was  filled  with  a 
sudden  tremor  of  nerves  becoming  too  highly 
strung;  the  girls  looked  anxiously  at  Aunt  Con- 
stance. She  felt,  she  realized  that  she  was  losing 
control  of  herself  and  made  an  effort  to  keep  calm. 


DR.  ADRIAAN  loi 

But  her  eyes  and  lips  trembled.  She  saw,  however, 
the  concern  overcasting  the  features  of  all  of  them — 
except  Mathilde — and  she  now  mastered  herself 
entirely,  though  the  tremor  remained,  very  deep 
down  within  her. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  in  a  gentler  voice,  "  we  arc 
really  rather  busy  here  ...  all  sorts  of  things, 
you  know.  Of  course,  Adolphine,  it  is  comforting 
to  feel  that  you  are  all  there  ...  at  the 
Hague  ...  in  case  anything  should  happen  to 
Ernst." 

The  tension  was  relaxed,  the  luncheon  ended 
quietly;  only  Adolphine  said: 

"Is  this  home-made  jelly?  .  .  .  Why  do  you 
have  it  made  so  sweet,  Constance?  " 

In  her  secret  heart  she  thought  the  sweet  jelly 
delicious. 

"  Aunt  Adolphine  wants  to  talk  to  you,  Addie," 
said  Constance,  when  the  meal  was  over. 

Adolphine  now  felt  very  humble.  Yes,  she  would 
like  to  talk  to  Addie;  and  she  went  out  with  him 
alone. 

"  She's  come  about  Marietje,"  said  Constance, 
when  Adolphine  and  Addie  had  left  the  room. 

"  But  why  didn't  she  write,"  asked  Van  der 
Welcke,  "  instead  of  coming  down?  " 

Suddenly  the  sound  of  Adolphine's  sobbing 
reached  their  ears  from  the  next  room. 

"Is  Marietje  really  bad,  Auntie?"  asked  the 
girls. 

And  they  sat  expectantly.  The  voices  of  Adol- 
phine and  Addie  sounded  one  against  the  other  from 
behind  the  folding-doors.  They  listened  in  spite  of 
themselves. 

"  She  must  certainly  change  her  present  environ- 
ment," said  Addie. 

Adolphine  sobbed: 


I02  DR.  ADRIAAN 

*'  That's  what  our  doctor  said  .  .  .  and  .  .  . 
and  Dr.  Berens  of  the  hospital,"  she  hiccoughed 
through  her  tears. 

Constance  did  not  want  to  listen  any  more;  but, 
though  she  had  controlled  herself  just  now,  her 
nerves  were  still  on  edge.  Pretending  that  she  was 
waiting  for  Adolphine,  she  went  through  the 
drawing-room  and  sat  down  beside  the  old  lady  in 
the  conservatory. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  mumbled  Mrs.  van  Lowe.  "  If  it 
goes  on  raining  like  this  ...  we  shall  have  floods 
again   .    .    .   just  as  we  did  last  year." 

Before  her  staring  eyes  she  saw  the  tropical 
floods  of  Java. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Adolphine  and  Addie  came 
to  look  for  Constance.  Adolphine  was  suffering 
under  the  influence  of  great  emotion,  with  red  eyes 
which  she  kept  on  wiping.  Constance  went  up  to 
her: 

"  Adolphine,  dear,"  she  said,  "  you  must  have 
confidence  in  Addie." 

Motherly  pride  mingled  with  the  pity  in  her 
voice. 

"  I  have,   Constance,"   said  Adolphine.     "  Only 

>> 

"Only  what?" 

"What  am  I  to  do  with  the  child?  Change  of 
environment,  our  doctor  said.  So  did  Dr.  Berens, 
of  the  hospital.  And  yet  we're  very  nice  to  her. 
.  .  .  Why  this  change  'of  environment?  And 
where's  she  to  go  to?  .  .  .1  haven't  the  money 
to  .  .  .to  take  her  to  the  country  for  any  length 
of  time.  ...  In  this  season  too  ...  in  the 
autumn !  .  .  .  What  .  .  .  what  am  I  to  do  with 
the  child?"  ^ 

"  I  was  thinking  ..."  said  Addie. 

He  looked  at  his  mother. 


DR.  ADRIAAN  103 

"Well?" 

"  If  you  and  Papa  approved  ...  I  could  ob- 
serve and  treat  her  best  here." 

Constance  suddenly  stiffened. 

"  I  don't  know,  Addie,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  know 
that  Papa  would  agree  to  that." 

How  tactless  it  was  of  him  to  say  this  in 
Adolphine's  presence !  She  regretted  that  she  had 
not  told  Adolphine,  before  lunch,  in  her  sitting- 
room,  that  the  house  was  full,  quite  full.  But  he 
continued,  quietly: 

"  I  should  like  to  ask  Papa.  Marietje  could 
have  Guy's  room  and  Guy  the  little  room  next 
to  it." 

"  That's  too  small  for  Guy.  You  must  remember, 
he's  got  work  to  do." 

He  was  conscious  of  the  reluctance  in  her  words. 
Nevertheless  he  said : 

"  Guy  could  do  his  work  in  my  study.  I  am  never 
there  in  the  mornings." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Adolphine,  joining  in.  "  No, 
Addie,  it  wouldn't  do.  Your  mother's  busy  enough 
as  it  is.   ..." 

"  It's  not  that  I'm  so  busy,"  said  Constance, 
"but  .    .    ." 

"Well,  Mamma?" 

"  Our  weekly  books,  you  know.    ..." 

He  had  never  known  his  mother  so  hard  or  so 
cruel.    And  he  now  said : 

"  Of  course.  Mamma,  if  you  think  it  can't  be 
done  .  .  .  I'll  see  what  I  can  do  for  Aunt  Adolph- 
ine ..  .  somewhere  in  the  neighbourhood.  Per- 
haps Marietje  could  go  and  live  in  a  family  at 
Zeist." 

"  Do  you  think  you  know  some  one  there  ?  "  asked 
Adolphine,  mournfully. 

But  suddenly  Constance  felt  very  yielding.     She 


I04  DR.  ADRIAAN 

became  so  yielding  because  Addie  had  said  this;  all 
her  hardness  and  cruelty  melted  away  in  remorse 
at  her  last  words;  and  she  said: 

"  Addie  ...  go  upstairs  and  .  .  .  and  ask 
Papa.   ..." 

Adolphine  looked  up  with  wonder  in  her  red 
eyes.  She  was  struck  that  Constance  was  altering 
so  suddenly  in  tone,  from  reluctance  to  assent;  and 
she  was  also  struck  that  Constance  did  not  appa- 
rently wish  to  decide  and  that  she  was  leaving  the 
decision  to  Van  der  Welcke. 

Addie  went  upstairs  at  once.  The  sisters  re- 
mained silent  and  alone;  the  old  lady  was  sitting  in 
the  conservatory. 

"  Oh,  Constance !  "  said  Adolphine.  "  Do  you 
think  that  Van  der  Welcke  .  .  .  ?  "  She  did  not 
complete  her  question,  but  went  on,  "  Yes,  I  suppose 
your  weekly  books  are  very  expensive?  " 

"  They  are  heavy,"  said  Constance.  "  You  under- 
stand it's   ..." 

"What?" 

"  It's  my  husband's  money  .  .  .  spent  on  my 
relations." 

"  But  Gerrit's  children  have  something." 

Constance  shrugged  her  shoulders : 

*'  You  know  exactly  how  much  they  have.  A 
couple  of  thousand  guilders  apiece." 

"  Well,  that's  something." 

"  We  keep  it  for  them  .  .  .  and  don't  touch 
it." 

"Really?"  said  Adolphine,  in  surprise.  "But 
then  there's  Mamma." 

"Mamma?" 

"  Yes,  you  have  her  money  too,"  said  Adolphine, 
looking  Constance  in  the  eyes. 

Constance  returned  the  look: 

"  My  dear  Adolphine,"   she   said,   gently,    "  as 


DR.  ADRIAAN  105 

Mamma  is  not  fit  to  attend  to  her  affairs,  her  money 
is  in  the  hands  of  our  solicitor  at  the  Hague;  and 
he  controls  it  for  her." 

"  And  the  income   .    .    .  ?  " 

"  It's  invested.  We  get  none  of  Mamma's  money. 
Surely  you  knew  that?  " 

"  No,  I  didn't." 

"  The  books  can  be  seen  at  the  solicitor's  by  any 
of  the  brothers  and  sisters." 

"Why  do  you  do  that?" 

"  Because  we  don't  want  to  touch  Mamma's 
money." 

"  But  why  not?    She's  living  with  you !  " 

"  We  want  to  avoid  unpleasantness  with  any  of 
the  brothers  or  sisters." 

"  But  which  of  us  would  create  any  unpleasant- 
ness? "  asked  Adolphine,  very  humbly. 

"  By  our  way  .  .  .  there's  no  question  of  any 
unpleasantness." 

"Yes,"  said  Adolphine.    "  Still,  I  thought  .    .    ." 

"  That  we  received  all  the  interest  on  Mamma's 
money  ?  " 

"  Yes.    The  money's  lying  there  quite  useless." 

"  There  will  be  all  the  more  for  her  grandchildren 
later  on.". 

"  Yes,"  said  Adolphine,  greatly  surprised,  re- 
membering her  long  conversations  during  those 
many  years  with  Saetzema,  Karel  and  Cateau  .  .  . 
because  Van  der  Welcke  and  Constance  at  Drie- 
bergen  were  quietly  taking  Mamma's  money  for 
themselves.  "  I  wonder  the  solicitor  never  told 
us!" 

"  I  thought  you  knew  all  about  it." 

"  No,"  said  Adolphine,  humbly,  and  did  not  add 
that  the  solicitor  had  once  told  Karel,  but  that  they 
had  all  refused  to  believe  it.  "  So  Mamma  .  .  . 
is  really  living  at  your  expense !  " 


io6  DR.  ADRIAAN 

Constance  smiled: 

"  Her  needs  are  so  small   .    .    .  poor  Mammal" 

"  But  you  keep  a  special  maid  for  her?" 

"  Yes,  that's  the  only  thing." 

"  Still,  it  makes  everything  dearer,  in  food  .  .  . 
and  taxes."  ^ 

"  Yes,"  said  Constance,  calmly. 

She  heard  Van  der  Welcke  and  Addie  come  down 
the  stairs;  they  entered  the  room.  And  it  was 
strange  to  see  the  father  and  son  together:  Van  der 
Welcke  with  his  irrepressibly  young,  bright  face  and 
his  boyish  eyes,  though  his  hair  was  turning  grey 
and  he  was  becoming  a  little  stout  from  his  sedentary 
life;  and  Addie  beside  him,  with  his  serious  direct- 
ness of  mind,  like  a  very  elderly  young  man,  his 
grey  eyes  filled  with  thought  and  care. 

"  Addie  tells  me  Marietje's  not  at  all  well,"  said 
Van  der  W^elcke,  by  way  of  preamble. 

Adolphine  gave  a  great  sob  that  shook  her  whole 
body;  she  nodded  and  began  to  cry. 

"  Well,"  said  Van  der  Welcke,  who  was  always 
moved  by  tears,  "  if  Addie  would  like  to  have  her 
here  ...  to  keep  her  under  better  observation, 
you  know  ...  let  her  come,  Adolphine,  by  all 
means.  We'll  find  a  bed  for  her  somewhere.  It's 
the  family  hospital,  after  all!   .    .    ." 

And,  when  Adolphine  began  to  sob  violently,  he 
added,  with  a  little  pat  on  the  shoulder : 

"  Come,  cheer  up  and  hope  for  the  best.   .    .    . 
Addie's  sure  to  make  her  all  right  again." 
'  There  is  a  tax  on  all  servants  in  Holland. 


CHAPTER  X 

Ernst  was  still  living  in  his  rooms  in  the  Nieuwe 
Vitley,  surrounded  by  his  collections,  surrounded  by 
his  hobbies.  A  man  of  fifty  now,  he  led  a  silent, 
solitary  life  amid  his  books,  his  china,  his  curiosities; 
and  the  landlady  looked  after  him  and  cooked  his 
meals,  because  he  paid  well,  paid  too  much  indeed. 
He  saw  little  of  the  family  because  the  others  really 
lived  as  secluded  as  he  did,  Paul  in  his  rooms,  Dorine 
at  her  boarding-house,  though  she  was  never  satisfied 
and  was  constantly  changing  her  boarding-house; 
and  no  family-tie  drew  him  to  Van  Saetzema's  house 
or  Karel's.  In  this  way  a  separation  and  estrange- 
ment had  grown  up  among  all  of  them;  the  bond 
between  them  had  perished,  now  that  Mamma  was 
no  longer  at  the  Hague  to  gather  them  all  around 
her  on  Sunday  evenings  in  her  big  house  in  the 
Alexander  Straat;  and  Constance,  of  late  years,  had 
often  pressed  him  to  come  and  live  at  Driebergen. 
But  he  obstinately  refused;  and  yet,  on  the  rare 
occasions  when  he  saw  her  at  the  Hague,  he  would 
take  her  hand  and  sit  knee  to  knee  with  her,  un- 
bosoming himself  of  all  his  stored-up  discontent 
with  the  rooms,  the  meals,  the  landlady,  that 
brother  of  hers:  the  brother  especially,  whom  he 
could  never  stand,  the  vulgar  bounder,  as  he  called 
him.  Constance  then  felt  him  to  be  an  aging,  alv/ays 
lonely  man,  who  never  uttered  his  thoughts  and  who, 
because  of  this  continual  silence,  bottled  up  within 
himself  the  thousands  of  words  which  he  now  poured 
forth  to  her  all  in  one  torrent  with  a  timid  look,  as 
if  he  were  afraid  that  the  landlady  and  her  brother 

J07 


n* 


io8  DR.  ADRIAAN 

were  standing  behind  the  door,  listening.  When 
Constance,  at  such  times,  tried  to  persuade  him  to 
move  to  Driebergen,  he  shook  his  head  obstinately, 
as  though  some  part  of  him  had  grown  fast  to  that 
room  of  his,  as  though  he  could  not  tear  himself  out 
of  it;  and  his  eyes  would  glance  at  his  books  and  his 
china,  as  though  to  say  that  it  was  impossible  to 
remove  all  that.  And,  because  he  was  calm  and  no 
trouble  and  quiet  in  his  behaviour,  she  let  him  alone, 
because  this  was  what  he  preferred:  to  live  within 
himself,  among  his  hobbies,  solitary,  shy  and  eccen- 
tric. Five  years  ago,  it  was  true,  he  had  been  ill 
again,  had  talked  to  himself  for  days  on  end,  had 
wandered  about  in  the  Wood.  Paul  wrote  to  Con- 
stance and  she  had  come  over;  but  Ernst  had  soon 
grown  quiet  again,  afraid  no  doubt  that  he  would 
have  to  go  back  to  Nunspiet,  afraid  of  a  change  of 
residence,  afraid  of  keepers,  of  nurses,  of  the  things 
which  he  had  never  been  able  to  forgive  any  of 
them,  not  even  Constance.  That  was  years  ago,  five 
years  ago;  and  lately  Constance  and  Addie  too  had 
never  seen  Ernst  other  than  calm  and  peaceful, 
though  a  good  deal  of  strange  and  silent  brooding 
seemed  to  lurk  behind  the  silent  cunning  of  his  dark, 
staring  eyes.  But  then,  months  and  months  would 
again  pass  without  their  seeing  him,  without  their 
hearing  of  him;  they  were  all  accustomed  to  his 
strangeness;  and  the  months  would  drag  past  with- 
out the  threatened  crisis  coming.  No,  nothing  came, 
even  though  the  man  was  strange,  though  he  did  talk 
to  himself,  though  he  was' full  of  bottled-up  griev- 
ances; and,  when  they  saw  him  again  after  a  lapse 
of  months,  they  were  struck  by  a  certain  artistic 
method  in  his  rooms  with  their  beautiful  warm 
colouring,  struck  by  some  new  arrangement  of  the 
furniture,  by  some  new  purchase ;  and  he,  as  though 
conscious  that  he  was  on  trial,  would  talk  almost 


rm.  ADRIAAN  109 

normally,  terrified  lest  they  should  drag  him  from 
his  rooms,  to  which  he  was  attached  even  though 
the  landlady  and  her  brother  always  stood  spying 
behind  the  door.    .    .    . 

Constance,  feeling  suddenly  upset  and  filled  with 
self-reproach  at  neglecting  Ernst,  went  to  the  Hague 
with  Addie  the  day  after  Adolphine's  visit;  and  the 
two  of  them  arrived  unexpected  in  the  Nieuwe 
Vitley. 

"  Meneer  is  out,"  said  the  landlady. 

"  In  this  rain?  "  asked  Constance. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  he  went  out  early  this  morning." 

*'  How  has  he  been  lately?  " 

"  Pretty  well,  ma'am.  As  usual.  Meneer  is  al- 
ways odd,  you  know,  but  he  is  not  troublesome.  He 
is  fairly  well." 

"Not  like   .    .    .?" 

"Some  years  ago?  No,  ma'am.  Meneer  has 
been  talking  to  himself  rather  more  of  late,  but 
that's  all.    Will  you  wait  for  him?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  He  is  sure  to  be  back  by  twelve  o'clock  or  so. 
He  is  very  regular  in  his  habits.  Won't  you  come 
upstairs?" 

Constance  and  Addie  went  upstairs  and  waited  in 
Ernst's  room. 

"  Poor  fellow,  poor  fellow !  "  said  Constance,  with 
emotion. 

She  did  not  know  what  was  the  matter  with  her, 
but  she  felt  full  of  self-reproach.  Oh,  were  they 
not  leaving  him  too  much  alone,  sunk  in  his  solitude  ? 
How  she  wished  that  she  could  coax  him  to  go 
back  with  her  to  Driebergen  and  to  live  there,  not 
far  from  them,  in  a  little  villa,  with  some  people 
who  were  in  the  habit  of  looking  after  invalids! 
Oh,  not  in  their  own  house,  not  in  their  own  house ! 
She  would  never  have  dared  suggest  that  to  Van 


no  DR.  ADRIAAN 

der  Welcke;  nor  had  Addie  ever  proposed  it.  No, 
not  at  home,  not  at  home,  but  somewhere  near,  so 
that  she  could  see  him  at  any  moment  and  not 
worry  herself  with  the  idea  of  his  suddenly  having 
a  nervous  breakdown  with  no  one  by  him  to  take  his 
piteous  soul-sickness  to  heart. 

And,  as  she  sat  thinking,  she  looked  around  her 
and  was  struck  by  the  manner  in  which  the  eerie 
lines  of  the  old  porcelain  and  new  pottery  curved 
against  the  sombre  hangings  and  furniture.  It  was 
very  strange,  stranger  than  she  had  ever  noticed. 
The  setting  enhanced  the  eeriness  of  it  all.  As  the 
years  passed,  the  vases  had  become  more  and  more 
of  a  disease,  blossoming  in  eerie  lines  and  glowing 
glaze  like  some  vicious  orchid,  high  against  the 
walls,  rising  to  the  ceiling,  in  a  riot  of  exotic  forms, 
like  a  vegetation  reaching  up,  stretching  up,  stretch- 
ing up  necks  and  hands  with  the  necks  and  handles 
of  the  vases,  as  though  trying  to  rise  higher  and 
higher  beyond  the  grasp  of  profane  mortals. 

"Why  does  Ernst  put  his  vases  so  high  up?" 
Constance  wondered,  as  she  looked  round  the  room. 

Suddenly  he  entered.  The  landlady  below  must 
have  told  him  that  his  sister  and  his  nephew,  the 
young  doctor,  were  upstairs,  for  the  movement  with 
which  he  turned  the  door-handle  was  abrupt,  his 
glance  as  he  stood  and  looked  from  the  one  to  the 
other  was  laden  with  suspicion  and  his  voice  trembled 
violently  as  he  asked: 

"What  are  you  here  for?" 

He  stood  before  them-  an  old,  trembling  man. 
His  neglected  clothes  hung  in  old,  slack  folds  about 
his  angular  limbs;  his  hair  already  almost  entirely 
grey,  hung  long  and  lank  around  his  lean,  trembling 
features  and  dark,  staring  eyes,  which  looked  with 
a  martyred  glance  from  the  one  to  the  other.  And 
yet,  however  neglected  and  soul-sick  this  trembling 


DR.  ADRIAAN  iii 

man  might  be,  who  looked  an  old,  old  man  though 
he  was  not  more  than  fifty,  a  gleam  of  intelligence 
shone  deep  down  in  his  suspicious  glance;  and  his 
long,  lean  fingers  were  those  of  an  artist:  impotent 
to  paint  or  model,  in  lime,  colour,  wood  or  sound, 
the  fluttering,  ever-present  dream  of  a  beauty  only 
just  divined.. 

They  both  strove  to  reassure  him,  said  that  they 
happened  to  be  at  the  Hague  and  so  had  come  to 
look  him  up;  and,  after  the  first  shock,  he  really  did 
not  strike  them  as  strange  or  more  ill  than  usual. 
Suddenly  even  a  ray  of  sympathy  seemed  to  shoot 
through  him  and  he  sat  down  between  them,  took 
their  hands  and  delivered  himself  of  his  complaint: 

"  Hush !  They're  always  listening  behind  the 
door,  the  brutes !  "  he  whispered,  timidly.  "  The 
landlady  and  her  brother !  I  can't  call  my  soul  my 
own;  they're  always  spying.  .  .  .  When  I'm  un- 
dressing, when  I  go  to  bed,  when  I  have  my  meals 
.  .  .  they're  always  spying.  I  can  hear  them  grin- 
ning. .  .  .  They're  standing  there  now,  to  hear  if 
we're  talking  about  them.  .  .  .  And,  when  I  open 
the  door,  they're  gone  in  a  moment  ...  so 
quickly,  just  like  ghosts.  .  .  .  The  other  day,  he 
lay  under  my  bed  all  night.  I'm  getting  used  to  it, 
I  no  longer  mind.  .  .  .  But,  properly  speaking,  I 
can't  call  my  soul  my  own.  Any  one  with  less 
steady  nerves  than  mine  simply  could  not  stand  it, 
could  never  stand  it.   ..." 

*'  But,  Ernst,  why  don't  you  move?  " 

He  knew  the  question  well,  he  recognized  the 
motive.  He  gave  a  kind  and  condescending  little 
smile,  because  they  did  not  know,  because  they  were 
so  coarse  of  fibre. 

"  I  can't  very  well  move,"  he  said.  "  You  see 
...  I  have  everything  here  .  .  .  everything 
here.   ..." 


112  DR.  ADRIAAN 

His  glance  and  his  gestures  became  very  vague, 
as  though  he  did  not  wish  to  say  more.  And  Addie 
saw  how  it  was:  Uncle  Ernst  still  believed,  had 
always,  all  those  years,  believed  in  the  souls  that 
swarmed  around  him,  the  souls  that  had  been  con- 
jured like  spirits  out  of  books,  curiosities  and  old 
vases.  But  he  never  spoke  of  the  souls  now,  be- 
cause he  remembered  only  too  well  how  stupid  and 
wicked  his  people  had  been  in  the  old  days.  After 
that  attack  twelve  years  ago,  he  had  gone  on  believ- 
ing in  these  brain-  and  soul-phantoms  of  his,  but 
he  had  learnt  to  keep  silent  about  them,  to  talk  as 
the  stupid  people  talked.  Or  by  preference  he  did 
not  talk  at  all.  .  .  .  But  this  very  silence  had 
caused  his  mistrust  to  develop  into  a  mania  that  he 
was  being  persecuted,  a  mania  that  made  him  con- 
stanty  look  round,  timidly.  .  .  .  He  would  open 
the  door,  look  into  the  passage.  .  .  .  And  Con- 
stance knew  that,  in  the  street,  he  was  for  ever 
looking  round,  attracting  the  attention  of  the 
passers-by  with  this  frightened,  suspicious  trick  of 
his. 

Addie  saw  it:  Ernst  believed  in  the  souls  which 
lay  crowding  around  him,  which  linked  themselves 
with  chains  to  his  soul,  which  he  dragged  with  him 
through  the  mud  of  the  streets  and  the  wretched- 
ness of  life,  the  souls  that  thronged  in  agony  around 
him,  until  they  weighed  down  his  chest  and  stifled 
him  so  that  he  longed  to  run  half-naked  into  the 
street  to  cool  himself  in  rain  and  air,  to  gulp  down 
the  wind.  And  very  deeply  bedded  in  the  sick  soul 
Addie  saw  hypersensitiveness  hiding  as  an  adorable 
tenderness  which,  instead  of  turning  to  a  disease, 
might  have  developed  into  the  profoundest  qualities 
of  sympathetic  feeling,  not  only  to  feel,  but  also  to 
know  and  understand,  because  of  the  slumbering 
spark  of  intelligence,  because  of  the  knowledge  so 


DR.  ADRIAAN  113 

eagerly  gleaned.  .  .  .  And  now  these  were  wasted 
gifts,  morbid  qualities,  now  it  was  all  useless  and 
sick  and  had  become  more  sick  and  more  useless  as 
the  sick  years  of  shadow  drearily  dragged  on  their 
misty-melancholy  introspection  and  increasing  dis- 
trustfulness.  It  was  all,  all  lost.  And,  in  his  pity 
at  this  fatal  waste,  at  this  tenderness  which  had 
soured  almost  into  ma4ness  and  was  devoted  to 
shadows  while  the  poor  world  stood  in  such  real 
need  of  tenderness  and  feeling,  Addie  remembered 
how  once,  years  ago,  he  had  felt  conscious  of  a 
longing  with  a  single  word  to  cure  the  sick  man: 
but  which,  which  word  ?  It  was  as  though  he  knew 
that  one  word  to  be  hovering  in  the  air  around 
him,  while  he  was  still  too  young  and  ignorant  to 
catch  it  as  he  might  have  caught  a  butterfly  with 
his  hat!  And  now,  now  he  knew  for  certain — after 
all  those  years  of  misty-melancholy  introspection 
and  increasing  distrustfulness — that  it  was  too  late 
and  that  the  man  could  not  recover  and  that  he 
would  die  as  he  had  lived  in  the  almost  proud  hal- 
lucination which  brought  around  him  for  protection 
the  numberless  oppressed,  persecuted  and  martyred 
souls,  suffocating  him  in  the  cloud  of  their  frail  tor- 
tured and  complaining  bodies.  And  it  was  not  only 
the  souls :  the  living  who  sought  him  out  were  also 
included  in  his  proud  illusion;  they  also  needed  his 
support,  because  he  alone  was  strong  and  all  of  them 
were  weak. 

It  was  too  late  for  a  cure;  but  still  Addie  longed, 
though  he  knew  for  certain  that  no  cure  could  ever 
take  place,  to  free  that  lost  and  impaired  quality  of 
noble  feeling  from  everything  that  could  shock  or 
offend  the  silent,  suffering  man;  and  he  swore  to 
himself  to  get  Uncle  Ernst  out  of  the  Hague,  out 
of  these  rooms,  where  he  was  taking  root  and  at  the 
same  time  being  tortured.     He  happened  that  day 


114  DR.  ADRIAAN 

to  feel  very  restful,  very  calm,  even  though,  deep 
down  in  the  subsoil  of  his  soul,  black  self-insuf- 
ficiency lowered  as  usual.  He  would  noi;  know  what 
to  do  for  himself;  for  this  sick  man  he  did  know 
what  to  do !  For  himself,  he  groped  around  in  a 
dark  labyrinth;  for  the  man  of  stricken  brain  and 
soul  he  knew  it  all  suddenly,  with  a  bright  ray  of 
clearest  perception,  knew  with  a  sacred,  instinctive 
knowledge !  And  yet  there  was  not  a  touch  of  joy, 
not  a  touch  of  ecstasy  or  fervour  in  his  sombre, 
melancholy  glance,  in  his  deep,  sombre  voice,  when, 
with  his  customary  earnestness  of  words  and  manner, 
he  said  to  his  mother: 

"  Mamma,  you  must  leave  me  alone  with  Uncle 
Ernst." 

She  looked  at  him.  And,  despite  his  quietness, 
his  earnestness,  his  calm  and  sombreness,  she  knew 
her  son  too  well  not  to  feel,  suddenly,  that  he  knew. 

"  Very  well,"  she  said,  *'  you  stay  with  Uncle 
Ernst.  I'll  go  round  to  Aunt  Adolphine  and  see 
Marietje.  When  and  where  shall  I  see  you?  This 
evening,  at  the  hotel?  " 

He  shook  his  head: 

"  No,"  he  said.  "  You  had  better  go  back  by 
yourself  to  Driebergen,  with  Marietje.  As  for 
me   .    .    . 

He  paused,  as  though  reflecting,  passed  his  hand 
across  his  forehead : 

"  As  for  me,  you'll  see  me  to-morrow,"  he  said, 
"  or  the  next  day.    ..."  s. 

"  At  Driebergen  ?    At'home  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And   .    .    .   your  uncle  ?  " 

He  made  a  sign  with  his  eyelids;  and  she  under- 
stood him,  partly,  and  asked  no  more.  She  took 
leave  of  Ernst  and  moved  to  go;  but  Ernst  kept 
her  for  a  moment  at  the  door: 


DR.  ADRIAAN  115 

"  Constance   ..." 

"  What  is  it,  Ernst?  " 

"  If  there's  anything  .  .  .  that  I  can  do  for 
you,  you'll  tell  me,  won't  you?  Tell  me  frankly. 
.  .  .  It's  very  difficult  for  me,  I  know  ...  to 
look  after  all  of  you  .  .  .  but,  if  I  don't,  nobody 
else  will.  ...  So  tell  me  plainly  if  I  can  help  you 
in  any  way.   ..." 

"There's  nothing  at  the  moment,  Ernst.   ..." 

"But  later  on?   ..." 

"  Perhaps." 

"  Then  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  help.  You  must 
ask  me  straight  out." 

"  I  will." 

"  Look  here   .    .    .  you  must  be  careful  ..." 

"Of  what?" 

"  Of  the  brother.  .  .  .  The  fellow's  a  scoun- 
drel. Take  care,  don't  speak  too  loud:  he's  stand- 
ing behind  the  door.  You  see,  he  can't  reach  so 
high." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  He  can't  reach  up  to  my  poor  vases.  He  would 
have  to  take  the  steps  .  .  .  and  he  won't  do  that 
in  a  hurry." 

"  What  used  he  to  do  to  the  vases,  Ernst?  " 

"  Take  them  in  his  hands." 

"  I  dare  say  he  admired  them." 

"  No,  he  used  to  break  them  ...  on  purpose. 
He  .    .    .   he   .    .    ." 

"What,  Ernst?" 

"  He  used  to  throttle  them.  Hush !  He  used  to 
wring  their  necks  with  his  vile  fingers." 

Then  he  realized  at  length  that  he  was  saying  too 
much  and  he  gave  a  loud,  kindly  laugh : 

"  You  don't  believe  that  he  used  to  throttle  them. 
Well,  at  any  rate,  they're  safer  up  there." 

"  At  least,  he  can't  break  them." 


ii6  DR.  ADRIAAN 

"  No.  What's  the  matter  with  Addie?  He's  not 
looking  well." 

"  Nothing.    He's  staying  on  to  talk  to  you." 

"  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  him?  " 

"  Perhaps  there  is,  Ernst.  Have  a  talk  with 
him." 

"  You  people  are  a  heavy  burden  on  me.   ..." 

"  I  must  go  now,  dear." 

She  kissed  him  good-bye. 

"  Be  careful,"  he  whispered. 

Suddenly,  he  swung  open  the  door: 

"  There !  "  he  cried,  triumphantly.  "  Did  you 
see?  The  scoundrel  slips  away  so  quickly.  Just 
like  a  ghost.     No,  more  like  a  devil." 

She  gave  a  last  glance  at  Addie;  her  eyelids 
flickered  at  him  and  she  went  away.  Ernst  closed 
the  door  very  carefully. 

"  He  simply  can't  go  on  living  by  himself," 
thought  Constance,  as  she  hurried  to  the  Van 
Saetzemas'. 

,  It  was  a  very  small  house  in  a  side-street  at 
Duinoord;  and  she  found  Van  Saetzema  sick  and 
ailing  in  a  stuffy  little  sitting-room;  she  saw  Caro- 
line, too,  bitter-eyed  and  bitter-mouthed,  generally 
embittered  by  her  dull  existence  as  spinster  of  nearly 
thirty,  with  no  prospect  of  marrying.  Meanwhile, 
Adolphine  kept  her  sister  waiting.  She  had  obvi- 
ously run  upstairs  to  put  on  a  clean  tea-gown.  At 
the  back  of  the  little  house,  under  the  grey  sky, 
which  sent  down  a  false  morning  light  through  the 
heavy  rain-clouds,  the  atmosphere  seemed  full  of 
bitterness  .  .  .  bitterness  because  they  were  ill 
and  poor  and  disappointed;  and  all  this  dreariness 
was  scantily  and  narrowly  housed  between  the 
father,  mother  and  daughter,  in  the  little  room 
where  they  kept  getting  in  one  another's  way.  A 
melancholy  born  of  pity  welled  up  in  Constance; 


DR.  ADRIAAN  117 

and  she  tried  to  talk  cheerfully,  while  Van  Saetzema 
coughed  and  complained,  Caroline,  bitter-mouthed 
and  bitter-eyed,  sat  silent  and  Adolphine  suddenly, 
with  no  attempt  at  preamble,  observed  to  Constance : 

"  It's  splendid  air  here,  at  Duinoord,  .  .  .  And 
the  house  is  extraordinarily  convenient   ..." 

But  her  boasting  voice  choked  as  she  completed 
her  sentence  more  humbly: 

"  For  the  four  of  us." 

"And  where  is  Marietje?"  asked  Constance. 

"  Upstairs.  She  likes  being  upstairs,  in  her  own 
little  room.    .    .    ." 

"  How  is  she  to-day?  " 

*'  Just  the  same." 

"May  I  see  her?'; 

Adolphine  rose  with  some  hesitation.  But  she 
took  Constance  upstairs  and  opened  a  door : 

"  Marietje,  here's  Aunt  Constance." 

The  girl  rose  from  her  chair  in  the  grey  light  of 
the  little  room.  She  was  tall  and  pale  and,  in  that 
light,  seemed  suddenly  to  blossom  up  like  a  lily  of 
sorrow,  with  the  white  head  drooping  at  the  neck, 
a  little  on  one  side.  The  very  fair  hair  hung  limply 
about  the  temples.  It  was  heavy — her  only  attrac- 
tion— and  was  wrung  into  a  heavy  knot  which  she 
wore  low  at  her  neck.  The  movements  of  her  long 
arms,  of  her  long,  thin  hands  betrayed  a  listless, 
lingering  anaemia;  and  her  blouse  hung  in  folds 
over  her  flat  bosom.  She  was  twenty-six,  but  looked 
younger;  her  lacklustre  eyes  were  innocent  of  all 
passion,  as  though  she  were  incapable  of  ever  be- 
coming a  woman,  as  though  her  senses  were  dying 
away  like  some  fading  lily  on  its  bending  stalk. 

"  Good-morning,  Auntie." 

The  little  room  was  grey  and  white  as  a  nun's 
cell,  with  the  cloistered  simplicity  of  a  hermitage. 

"  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you,  Marietje." 


ii8  DR.  ADRIAAN 

"  Auntie,  Mamma  said  that  you  and  Uncle  .    .    .  '* 

"  Yes,  Marietje,  we'll  be  glad  to  have  you  with 
us.  Mamma  has  told  you,  hasn't  she?  .  .  .  Then 
Addie  can  ..." 

"  It's  very  kind  of  you.  Auntie.  But  .  .  .  but 
I  would  rather  not  come." 

"What  do  you  mean,  dear?" 

"  I  would  rather  stay  here.  .  .  .  There's  not 
much  about  me  to  cure;  and  I'm  not  anxious  to  be 
cured.    And  in  your  house   ..." 

"Well?" 

"  I  should  be  so  gloomy.  I  am  never  bright  or 
cheerful,  you  know.  And  I  hardly  ever  come  down- 
stairs." 

Adolphine's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  It's  true,*^'  she  said,  softly.  "  She  lives  up 
here." 

"  You  would  be  cheerful  enough  with  us,  Mari- 
etje." 

"  No,  Auntie,  I  should  feel  uncomfortable  with 
you  .  .  .  because  I  am  not  cheerful.  I  should 
depress  you  all." 

"  We  are  not  so  easily  depressed.  And  the  chief 
thing  is  that  Addie  could  treat  you  regularly." 

Marietje  gave  a  pale  smile. 

"  Why  won't  you  go,  dear?  "  asked  Adolphine. 

The  girl  retained  her  pale  smile.  She  seemed  to 
be  wrestling  with  a  temptation  that  opened  up  soft 
and  peaceful  visions  in  her  pale  life  as  a  constant 
invalid;  but  she  did  not  wish  to  yield. 

"  Come,"  said  Constance,  "  you  had  much  better, 
really." 

Suddenly  Marietje  felt  herself  grow  very  weak. 
She  saw  death,  saw  the  end  so  very  close  before  her 
eyes;  and  the  soft,  peaceful  visions  would  never 
be  more  than  a  very  brief  hallucination,  which  after 
all  she  might  as  well  accept.    And,  because  she  sud- 


DR.  ADRIAAN  119 

denly  felt  as  though  in  a  dream,  she  had  no  strength 
to  resist  the  gently  persuasive  voices  of  her  mother 
and  her  aunt,  which  were  luring  and  luring  her,  like 
voices  from  very  far  away,  voices  which  she  seemed 
to  hear  through  the  haze  of  vague  and  enticing 
distance.  Yet  her  own  wan  voice  did  not  reveal  what 
she  felt,  as  she  continued  feebly  objecting: 

"  I  should  be  too  much  trouble.  An  invalid  is  so 
depressing." 

"  It  would  be  very  difficult  for  Addie  to  look 
after  you  here." 

"  Besides,  you  have  Grandmamma  ..." 

"  She's  no  trouble." 

"  And  little  Klaasje." 

"  Yes,  but  that's  different." 

"  How  are  Marietje  and  Adele?  " 

"  Quite  well,  very  well  indeed.  We'll  go  on  call- 
ing her  Marietje  and,  if  you  come  down,  we'll  call 
you     .    .   let's  say  Mary,  to  avoid  confusion." 

"Mary.   ..." 

"Will  that  do?" 

"  But  your  house  is  so  full  as  it  is." 

"  Guy  is  giving  you  his  room." 

The  girl  uttered  more  faint  words  and  phrases, 
but  they  were  like  little  waves  which  carried  her 
softly  and  tenderly  towards  the  gentle  vision  and 
the  dream. 

"  Very  well,  Auntie,"  she  said,  at  last.  "  You  are 
very  good  to  me." 

"  It's  only  natural,  as  far  as  I'm  concerned.  But, 
when  you're  at  Driebergen,  you'll  thank  your  uncle, 
won't  you?  " 

"  Of  course.    It's  his  house." 

"  Yes." 

"  Won't  it  be  rather  damp  .  .  .  for  Marietje?  " 
asked  Adolphine,  hesitatingly. 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  said  Constance. 


120  DR.  ADRIAAN 

"  Constance,"  said  Adolphine,  taking  her  hand, 
"  it  is  so  kind  of  you  .  .  .  and  I  am  so  grate- 
ful.  .    .    ." 

Her  voice  trembled  as  she  spoke. 

"  My  dear,  what  a  fuss  you  make !  "  said  Con- 
stance. "  I'm  your  sister  and  Marietje  is  my  niece. 
But  .    .    ." 

"But  what?" 

"  It  certainly  is  kind   ...   of  Henri." 

"  Yes,  it's  very  nice  of  your  husband." 

"  You  see,  it's  his  house." 

"  Yes  .  .  .  and  he  had  so  many  calls  on  him," 
said  Adolphine,  humbly.  "  Constance,  won't  you  let 
me  pay  something  .  .  .  for  Marietje's  keep?  So 
much  a  month,  I  mean  .  .  .  until  she's  a  little 
better.   ..." 

"  You'd  better  not  bother  to  do  that,  Adolphine." 

"  You  have  so  many  expenses." 

"  Yes,  but  you've  plenty  of  use  for  your  money 
too." 

"  What  I  mean  is  .  .  .  it's  your  husband's 
money." 

"  I  know.  But  Henri  would  rather  you  didn't 
pay  anything   .    .    .   really." 

"Really?" 

"  I'm  sure  of  it.  If  you  or  Van  Saetzema  wrote 
him  a  line   .    .    .   he'd  like  that." 

"  Of  course  I  shall.     I  shall  thank  him  myself." 

"  And  you'll  come  and  see  the  child  whenever  you 
like,  won't  you,  Adolphine  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Constance,  I  will.  .  .  .  What  a  pity  it  is 
that  you  don't  live  in  the  Hague  I  " 

"Why?" 

"  Oh,  the  Hague  is  so  much  our  town,  our  family 
town,-  and  your  house,  now  that  Mamma  is  so  old, 
is  certainly  the  house  ...  of  the  family,  the 
centre,  so  to  speak.    ..." 


DR.  ADRIAAN  121 

"  It's  Henri's  house." 

"  Yes,  that's  what  I  mean." 

Constance  stood  up  to  go : 

"  Then  will  Marietje  come  down  with  me  to- 
morrow ?  " 

"  Yes,  we'll  pack  her  trunk." 

Marietje  rose  suddenly,  threw  her  arm  round 
Constance  and  sobbed  excitedly: 

"  Auntie  .  .  .  Auntie  ...  I  do  think  it 
so   .    .    ." 

"So  what,  dear?" 

The  rapture  died  out  of  her  voice;  and  she  con- 
cluded : 

"  I  think  it  so  kind  ...  of  Uncle  ...  of 
Uncle  and  you  ...  to  have  me  ...  to  live 
with  you,  to  live  with  you.    ..." 

Van  Saetzema  downstairs  had  a  violent  attack  of 
coughing;  and  Adolphine  rushed  anxiously  out  of 
the  door. 


CHAPTER  XI 

Days  had  come  of  endless  flaking  snow;  and  the 
hard  frost  kept  the  snow  tight-packed  in  the  garden, 
alongside  the  house,  the  silent,  massive  building 
whose  thick  white  lines  stood  out  against  the  low- 
hanging  snow-laden  skies:  one  great  greyness  from 
out  of  which  the  grey  of  the  snow  fell  with  a  sleepy 
whirl  until  it  was  caught  in  the  grip  of  the  frost 
and  turned  white,  describing  the  outlines  of  villa- 
houses  and  the  branching  silhouettes  of  black  and 
dreary  trees  with  round  soft  strokes  of  white.  The 
road  in  front  of  the  house  soon  soiled  its  whiteness 
with  cart-tracks  and  footprints;  and  with  the  snow 
there  fell  from  the  sky,  like  so  much  grey  wool,  the 
pale  melancholy  of  a  winter  in  the  country,  all  white 
decay  and  white  loneliness:  days  so  short  that  it 
seemed  as  though  the  slow  hours  slept  and,  when 
awake,  but  dragged  their  whiter  veils  from  grey 
dawn  to  grey  twilight,  so  that  dawn  might  once 
again  be  turned  to  night.  And  the  short  days  were 
like  white  nights,  sunless,  as  though  the  light  were 
shining  through  velvet,  as  though  life  were  breath- 
ing through  velvet,  velvet  cold  as  the  breath  of 
death,  the  breath  of  death  itself,  striking  down  and 
embracing  all  things  in  its  chill  velvet.    .    .    . 

In  the  big  house  reigned  the  silent  warmth  of 
domesticity  in  big  heated  rooms  and  passages,  with 
the  rich  browns  of  the  heavy  old  carpets  and  cur- 
tains which  had  lived  long  and  were  beginning  to 
grow  worn  in  weary  attitudes  and  folds  of  chamber 
contemplation,  as  though  the  dead  stuffs  looked 
down  and  dreamed  and  breathed  in  sympathy  with 


DR.  ADRIAAN  123 

all  that  lived  among  them,  while  in  the  snowy  light 
reflected  from  outside  the  mahogany  furniture  also 
gleamed  with  its  own  life  or  cast  back  things  of  long 
ago,  past  sufferings  of  small  people  and  past  senti- 
ments. The  silent  moods  of  old  and  lonely  people 
seemed  to  rise  up  from  the  old,  solemn  furniture, 
which  smiled  good-humouredly  because  so  much  new 
life  had  come  into  the  midst  of  it  from  the  outside: 
the  chair-springs  moaned,  the  cupboard-doors 
creaked,  the  looking-glasses  grew  dull  and  bright  in 
turns,  the  china  became  chipped,  the  silver  became 
scratched,  full  of  the  serviceable  humility  of  those 
very  old,  wearing  things  of  daily  life,  which  had 
long  been  used  and  were  dying  off  slowly,  while  all 
around  and  about  them  blossomed  the  new  move- 
ment of  the  new  life  from  without.  And  yet,  despite 
that  new  movement  and  that  new  life,  a  soul  of  the 
past  seemed  to  hover  through  the  long  passages,  up 
the  brown  stairs,  to  skim  along  the  dark  doors,  even 
though  these,  when  opened,  gave  admission  to  the 
rooms  of  the  new  life.  Even  in  the  rooms  them- 
selves, something  still  hovered  of  that  soul  of  the 
past;  and  the  furniture  reflected  that  soul,  as  though 
it  were  vaguely  clinging  to  material  things,  a  soul 
catching  at  earthly  things  when  itself  had  not  yet 
died  out  entirely.   .    .    . 

In  among  these  reflections  of  the  soul-things  of 
the  past  there  lingered  a  remnant  of  biblical  piety, 
because  of  the  titles  of  certain  books  in  the  book- 
cases, because  of  certain  old-fashioned  engravings 
in  the  dark  rooms;  and  at  certain  hours  of  silent 
twilight  there  passed  through  the  house  a  sort  of 
hover  of  prayer,  which  Constance  sometimes  felt  so 
intently  that,  on  Sunday  mornings,  she  always  in- 
sisted that  the  girls  at  least  should  go  to  church, 
as  though  they  were  almost  bound  to  do  so  out  of 
reverence  for  the  old  people  who  used  to  live  and 


124  DR.  ADRIAAN 

pray  here  .  .  .  and  especially  for  the  old  man. 
And  the  thought  that  she  herself  did  not  go  troubled 
her  so  greatly  that,  very  occasionally,  she  accom- 
panied the  girls,  though  she  continued  insensible  to 
any  impression  derived  from  liturgical  religion. 
And  the  things  of  the  past  that  flickered  and  ho- 
vered and  formed  the  intangible  atmosphere  of  the 
dark  passages  and  the  rich-brown  rooms,  in  which 
the  only  gay  note  was  struck  by  the  blue-and-white 
of  the  Delft  pots  and  jars :  those  things  of  the  past 
all  unconsciously  harmonized  with  the  mood  only 
of  Van  der  Welcke,  because  something  of  his  child- 
hood was  wafted  and  reflected  in  them,  and  of 
Addie,  because  of  his  vague  sense  of  inheriting  not 
only  the  material  but  also  the  immaterial  things 
with  which  the  big  house  remained  filled.  Though 
he  felt  a  stranger  to  the  old  man,  he  felt  related 
to  the  old  woman,  with  a  strange  retrospect  of 
what  he  knew  of  her  and  remembered  of  her  later, 
silent,  mystic  years,  when  liturgical  piety  was  not 
enough  to  satisfy  her. 

But  for  the  rest  the  house  remained  as  it  were 
one  great  hospitality,  though  alien  in  blood  to  so 
many  who  had  found  a  shelter  in  it  and  a  sanctuary : 
the  old,  doting  woman  at  the  window,  peering  out 
at  the  snow-grey  garden-vistas;  the  mourning  and 
still  young  mother,  with  her  grown-up  children ;  and 
Emilie,  full  of  silent  mystery.  And,  the  other  day, 
in  a  drifting  blizzard,  Constance  had  brought  home 
Marietje  van  Saetzema — Mary,  as  they  decided  to 
call  her — and  they  had  given  her  Guy's  room,  now 
that  Guy  worked  in  a  corner  of  Addie's  study,  where 
he  heaped  up  his  books  on  a  little  table.  The  house 
gradually  became  very  full.  The  daughter-in-law 
also  remained  alien  to  the  big  house;  but  the  children, 
Constance  and  Jetje,  were  always  like  golden  sun- 
beams, sometimes  whirling  in  a  sound  of  yet  stam- 


DR.  ADRIAAN  li^ 

merlng  voices  of  early  springtime,  as  they  went 
along  the  stairs  and  passages  with  their  nurse — one 
already  toddling  on  foot,  the  other  still  carried — to 
go  for  a  drive  in  the  governess-cart  or  to  play  in 
the  conservatory,  where  the  old  great-grandmother, 
at  the  window,  looked  on  with  vague  smiles  at  their 
playfulness,  which  was  that  of  very  small  children. 
And,  the  day  after  Constance'  arrival  with 
Marietje  in  the  grey-white  blizzard,  how  surprised 
they  all  were  when  Addie  telegraphed  that  he  was 
coming,  next  day,  with  Uncle  Ernst !  Two  or  three 
words  only  in  the  telegram,  with  no  explanation: 
how  astounded  they  were  that  Addie  had  managed 
to  get  that  done !  Constance  and  Guy  went  at  once 
to  the  little  villa  where  they  took  in  patients:  yes, 
the  doctor  had  already  wired  for  the  two  rooms, 
they  were  told,  and  everything  was  being  got  ready, 
that  was  to  say,  the  bedroom;  for  the  gentleman 
would  furnish  the  sitting-room  himself.  And  on  the 
next  day  Addie  and  Uncle  Ernst  actually  arrived. 
Ernst's  furniture  was  being  sent  on  from  the  Hague; 
his  china  had  been  packed  up  under  his  own  and 
Addie's  supervision;  and,  though  Ernst  at  first 
looked  at  the  bare  sitting-room  with  great  suspicion, 
tapping  at  the  walls,  listening  at  the  partition  and 
declaring  that  the  people — the  man  of  the  house, 
himself  a  male  nurse,  and  the  trained  nurse,  his 
wife — were  spying  behind  the  door,  just  like  the 
landlady  and  her  cad  of  a  brother  at  the  Hague, 
nevertheless  he  was  pleased,  surprised  to  find  the 
room  so  large,  though  he  missed  the  sombre  canal  in 
the  Nieuwe  Vitley,  which  he  loved  for  the  gloom 
of  its  colouring  and  atmosphere.  As  he  passed 
through  the  garden  with  Addie,  leaning  on  Addie's 
arm,  he  thought  it  strange  that  he  saw  walking 
through  the  white  snow,  accompanied  by  the  nurse, 
an  old  lady,  the  only  patient  at  the  moment,  though 


126  DR.  ADRIAAN 

there  were  several  in  the  summer,  and  he  looked  at 
her  with  suspicion;  but  he  was  pleased  again  and 
surprised  when  Addie  explained  to  him  how  very 
near  he  would  be  living  to  all  of  them;  and,  when 
Addie  brought  him  to  the  house,  Ernst  stood  by  the 
garden-gate  gazing  at  it  and  looked  up  at  the  snow- 
corniced  gable,  at  the  soft  snow  on  the  straight 
lines  of  the  windows  and  above  the  door.  The  great 
house  seemed  to  look  down  upon  him  benignly  with 
all  the  eyes  of  its  window-panes;  and  he  went  on, 
leaning  on  Addie's  arm,  through  the  garden  and 
inside.  He  had  never  been  there  before.  He  took 
an  immediate  interest  in  the  antique  cabinet  in  the 
hall,  the  engravings,  the  Delft  jars  and  nodded  his 
head  approvingly,  admitting  that  this  was  beautiful. 
Constance  welcomed  him  cordially;  and,  though  he 
had  not  seen  Mamma  for  years,  he  greeted  her  in 
all  simplicity,  as  if  he  had  parted  from  her  only 
yesterday.  She  held  his  hand,  looked  him  in  the 
face,  recognized  him  for  a  son  of  hers  but  did  not 
know  his  name,  imagined  that  he  had  come  from 
Java,  asked  after  things  and  mentioned  names.  .  .  . 
They  did  not  understand  each  other;  and  Constance 
felt  very  sad,  especially  because  of  little  Klaasje, 
playing  at  Mamma's  feet  with  lovely  coloured 
picture-books  which  "  Uncle "  Addie  had  given 
her: 

"  Look  ...  a  blue  man  .  .  .  yellow  woman 
.  .  .  red!  And  outside  .  .  .  everything  white 
.    .    .   everything    white   .    .    .   everything    white! 

And  suddenly  so  heavy  a  melancholy  arose  in 
Constance  that  she  could  have  burst  out  sobbing 
because  of  her  mother,  her  brother,  because  of  th-^t 
child  of  her  poor  brother  Gerrit!  But  she  made 
a  violent  effort  of  self-control,  put  her  arm  round 
Ernst's  shoulder  and  led  him  away  from  Mamma; 


DR.  ADRIAAN  127 

and  Adeline  and  Emilie  came  to  speak  to  him.  Oh, 
the  things  of  the  past — not  the  past  things  of  which 
the  atoms  still  hovered  about  this  house,  those  of 
the  old  people,  but  the  things  of  their  own  past,  of 
the  bygone  dead  years  of  all  of  them,  years  of  a 
youth  not  so  long  ago — how  they  crowded  in 
amongst  them  all,  how  they  filled  the  atmosphere  of 
the  faintly  sombre  room,  while  the  snow  reflected 
its  gleams  indoors  to  water  away  brightly  in 
the  old  mirrors!  .  .  .  How  did  they  all  come 
to  be  here  like  this,  how  did  they  all  come 
to  be  here  like  this,  as  in  a  refuge,  as  in  a 
sanctuary,  a  silent  haven  of  simple  love?  .  .  . 
How  nerveless  she  became,  how  nerveless,  when 
she  saw  her  husband  and  her  son  come  in, 
those  two  who  .  .  .  !  She  could  not  pursue  her 
thoughts  of  nervelessness  and  sadness  any  further. 
Alex  also  now  entered;  and  in  him,  so  young,  so 
young,  she  also  saw  all  the  past,  flashing  at  her 
suddenly  out  of  his  eyes,  with  the  vision  of  his 
father's  death.  .  .  .  But  now  the  girls  came  in 
too,  and,  when  Guy  and  Gerdy  came,  both  laughing, 
she  also  laughed,  because  of  their  gaiety,  their 
flaxen-haired  joy  in  living,  young  and  strong  and 
healthy  and  simple,  both  of  them.  .  .  .  How 
happy,  how  happy  those  two  were!  Oh,  the  more 
the  past  heaped  itself  up,  the  more  the  present  was 
overcast  with  shadow;  but  those  two,  Gerdy  and 
Guy,  were  young  and  strong  and  healthy  and  simple  1 
.  .  .  Happy,  happy!  And,  with  a  laugh  almost 
of  happiness,  however  intensely  she  might  feel  all 
the  things  of  the  past,  she  asked  Addie : 

"  Isn't  it  too  much  for  Uncle  Ernst,  now?  " 

"  Yes,  I  shall  take  him  home,"  said  Addie. 

"  Can't  he  stay  and  dine  one  day?" 

"  Perhaps  later  on;  he  must  get  used  to  it  first. 
The  great  thing  is  not  to  force  him." 


128  DR.  ADRIAAN 

And  he  suggested  to  Ernst  that  they  should  go 
back. 

But  Ernst  said: 

"  When  will  my  packing-cases  come?  " 

"  To-morrow,  Uncle." 

"  You  see,  if  I'm  to  get  everything  in  order  .   .   . " 

"  I'll  help  you." 

"  Will  you  help  me  unpack?  " 

*'  I'll  help  you  too,  Uncle,"  said  Guy. 

"  Yes,"  said  Ernst,  "  that's  right.  .  .  .  You 
see,"  he  whispered  to  Addie   .    .    . 

"What,  Uncle?" 

"  It's  not  good  .  .  .  for  the  vases  to  remain  in 
the  cases  so  long.  .  .  .  You  don't  believe  it,  of 
course,  but   .    .    ." 

He  did  not  complete  his  sentence,  would  not  say 
that  the  vases  were  suffocating  in  their  cases,  with 
all  that  paper  and  straw;  he  would  not  say  it,  be- 
cause Addie  was  so  kind,  a  kind-hearted  fellow, 
really,  but  devoid  of  understanding,  stupid,  just  as 
stupid  as  all  the  rest  of  them.    .    .    . 

"  We  shall  unpack  as  quickly  as  we  can.  Uncle, 
and  make  the  room  comfortable  for  you." 

"  Yes.    I  have  only  the  bedroom  at  present." 

"The  bedroom's  all  right,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Yes.    Am  I  to  have  my  dinner  there  to-night?  " 

"  If  you  don't  mind  ...  as  your  sitting-room 
Isn't  ready.    ..." 

"  Yes.  I  don't  care  for  dining  in  my  bedroom. 
Can't  I  stay  and  dine  here?" 

"  Certainly,  Uncle.  We  should  like  that  above 
all  things.  Aren't  the  troop  of  us  too  noisy  for 
you?" 

"  They  are  a  bit  noisy,  but  .  .  .  no,  they're 
very  good.  Tell  me,  Addie,  they're  all  children  of 
Uncle  Gerrit,  aren't  they?  " 

"  Of  Uncle  Gerrit,  yes." 


DR.  ADRIAAN  129 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  remember.  I  should  like  to  stay  and 
dine,  if  I  may.  It's  because  the  sitting-room  isn't 
ready,  you  see." 

"  Very  well.  Uncle.  Then  come  upstairs  now,  to 
my  study.  Then  you  can  rest  a  bit  and  read,  or 
sleep  if  you  like,  on  the  sofa." 

"  No,  I  never  sleep  by  day." 

"  It'll  be  quiet  for  you  there." 

"  Yes,  it's  quiet  where  you  are." 

"  Come  with  me." 

He  took  Ernst  upstairs. 

*'  This  is  a  nice,  quiet  room,"  said  Ernst. 

"  Then  I'll  leave  you  by  yourself.  You'll  find 
books  and  papers.  .  .  .  Can  you  manage  to  occupy 
yourself  alone?  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear  boy;  I  want  to  be  alone.  You're 
kind,  you're  very  kind.  You  understand  me.  I 
shall  be  glad  to  stay  and  dine." 

"  Would  you  like  your  dinner  up  here  ?  " 

"  No,  downstairs,  with  all  of  you.  They're 
Uncle  Gerrit's  children,  aren't  they?  You  see,  it's 
all  family.    I'd  rather  dine  downstairs." 

"  All  right,  I'll  come  and  fetch  you." 


CHAPTER  XII 

A  FEW  days'  skating  produced  a  sudden,  unex- 
pected lightness  of  heart;  and  Mathilde  grew  more 
animated.  The  members  of  Gerdy's  tennis-club  met 
again  on  the  ice;  Guy  did  nothing  but  skate  these 
days,  excusing  himself  to  Constance  and  Addie  for 
his  idleness  by  saying  that  one  had  to  make  the 
most  of  the  ice,  which  never  lasted  long;  and  even 
Van  der  Welcke  was  persuaded  by  Guy  to  fasten 
on  his  skates,  remaining  young  as  ever  in  his  quiet 
way.  It  was  indeed  a  sudden,  unexpected  lightness 
of  heart  after  so  many  rainy  days:  the  cold  wind 
whipped  up  their  blood;  the  snow  crackled  like 
powdered  crystal  under  their  eager,  hurrying  feet; 
young  men  and  girls  of  Gerdy's  little  circle  came  to 
fetch  her  in  the  morning  and  again  after  lunch;  and, 
when  the  skating  was  over,  they  would  all  meet 
round  the  tea-table,  in  the  big  drawing-room.  And 
Addie  taught  Klaasje  to  skate  on  the  pond  In  the 
garden;  and,  under  the  jovial  influence  of  the  frosty 
snow,  he  romped  about  the  garden  with  his  children, 
with  little  Jetje  and  Constant.  And  yet  perhaps 
none  of  them  sniffed  up  the  healthy  outdoor  life  of 
those  cold  days  of  east-wind  and  ice  so  greedily  as 
Mathilde,  suddenly  quickened  in  her  rich  blood,  her 
somewhat  coarse  build,  her  heavy  tread  and  her 
loud,  full,  womanly  voice.  It  had  been  no  life  for 
her,  with  the  silent,  dripping  rain,  in  the  noisy  but 
yet  sombre  big  house.  She  and  the  children  had 
kept  upstairs  as  much  as  possible  in  her  own  rooms, 
because  she  felt  out  of  tune  with  the  whole  pack 
below,  unable  to  coalesce  with  the  big  household: 

J30 


DR.  ADRIAAN  131 

those  sad  women  and  all  those  children  of  Uncle 
Gerrit's,  who  daily  monopolized  Addie  more  and 
more,  until  he  had  hardly  a  moment  to  give  to  his 
own  children  and  her.  What  was  he  to  her  now, 
always  busy,  always  occupied,  always  away,  always 
attending  to  the  pack,  below  or  to  poor  people  out- 
side, poor  people  about  whom  she  knew  nothing? 
What  was  her  life  to  her,  the  life  in  which  she 
pined  away  in  that  musty  atmosphere,  in  which  she 
always  remained  a  stranger,  for  lack  of  any  sort 
of  sympathy,  because  she  did  not — any  more  than 
any  of  them — wish  for  the  establishment  of  any 
harmonious  intimacy?  Was  it  not  really  a  terrible 
existence,  for  a  young  and  spirited  woman,  in  the 
country,  in  the  winter,  at  Driebergen,  with  no 
friends,  in  a  house  with  rooms  so  dark  and  gloomy 
that  the  servants  declared  that  it  was  haunted;  then 
downstairs,  always  at  the  window,  the  doting  grand- 
mother; Klaasjc,  half  an  imbecile;  Adeline  and 
Emilie,  never  cheerful,  always  melancholy;  and 
those  who  were  cheerful,  Guy  and  Gerdy,  never 
nice  to  her;  her  father-in-law  much  fonder  of  Guy 
and  Gerdy  than  of  herself,  whom,  as  she  well  knew, 
he  actually  disliked;  her  mother-in-law,  kind  at 
times,  it  was  true — had  she  not  given  Mathilde  the 
beautiful  brilliant  which  now  sparkled  on  her  fin- 
ger?— but  still  cold,  she  thought,  cold  even  to  the 
children,  just  forcing  herself  to  be  kind  because 
Mathilde  happened  to  be  her  son's  wife.  No,  she 
couldn't  say  who  or  what  was  to  blame,  but  a 
stranger  she  remained,  a  constant  stranger,  half- 
forgotten,  together  with  her  two  children,  the  child- 
ren who  alone,  besides  Papa  and  Addie,  bore  the 
name  of  the  house,  of  Van  der  Welcke — Baron  and 
Baroness  van  der  Welcke — the  children  neglected, 
because  the  whole  troop  of  Van  Lowes  made  them- 
selves masters  of  the  house;  of  the  affection  of  her 


132  DR.  ADRIAAN 

father-in-law  and  mother-in-law,  of  every  minute 
that  Addie  had  to  spare !  Oh,  it  was  just  a  hospital  I 
Adeletje  was  always  ailing;  and  now  Marietje  van 
Saetzema,  really  very  seriously  ill,  had  been  added 
to  the  rest.  Or  wasn't  it  rather,  with  their  exag- 
gerated clinging  to  that  family  of  semilunatics,  a 
mad-house,  now  that,  over  and  above  doting  Grand- 
mamma and  half-witted  Klaasje,  this  Uncle  Ernst, 
who  was  quite  out  of  his  mind,  had  appeared  upon 
the  scene?  True,  he  did  not  live  in  the  house,  but 
he  was  there  a  great  deal  and  would  come  in  to 
meals  unexpectedly,  without  a  word  of  warning. 
She  was  frightened  when  she  met  him  suddenly  in 
the  passages,  always  carrying  on  about  the  Delft 
jars;  and  then  he  didn't  recognize  her,  didn't  know 
who  she  was,  what  she  was  doing  there,  until  he 
remembered:  Addie's  wife.  Perhaps  he  only  be- 
haved like  that  from  craftiness,  from  wickedness. 

A  haunted  house,  a  sick-house,  a  mad-house: 
that's  what  it  was;  and  this  was  where  she  had  to 
spend  her  life,  for  Addie's  suggestion,  that  they 
should  live  by  themselves,  economically,  at  the 
Hague,  did  not  attract  her:  she  had  had  enough  of 
economy,  she  had  not  married  him  for  economy! 
She  had  not  married  him  for  his  money  or  for  his 
title  either:  she  had  really  and  truly  married  him 
because  she  loved  him,  loved  his  quiet,  charming, 
serious  face,  his  eyes,  his  mouth,  loved  having  him 
in  her  arms,  because  she  loved  his  voice,  loved, 
strange  though  it  might  seem,  his  rather  elderly, 
restful  manliness,  calmness  and  strength  suggested 
by  that  rather  short,  sturdy,  blond  frame.  She  had 
looked  upon  him  with  love,  had  felt  love  for  him; 
and  no  one  could  blame  her  for  being  sensible  and 
for  not  being  prepared  to  marry  him  if  he  had  been 
quite  without  money.  Of  course  she  thought  it  nice 
to  have  a  title:  well,  there  may  have  been  a  little 


DR.  ADRIAAN  133 

vanity  In  that;  but  weren't  there  hundreds  like  her? 
And  did  that  malce  her  bad  and  so  contemptible  that 
they  just  left  her  to  her  own  devices,  Addie  himself 
just  as  much  as  the  whole  pack  of  them? 

All  the  little  grievances  accumulated  within  her 
breast,  weighing  her  down  and  almost  stifling  her: 
the  tea,  which  Gerdy  purposely  made  not  fit  to 
drink;  the  half-witted  child,  which  pushed  against 
her  chair;  the  imbecile  man,  who  did  not  recognize 
her;  the  coolness  of  Papa,  who  never  spoke  a  kind 
word  to  her,  not  even  when  he  was  playing  with  his 
grandchildren,  Jetje  and  Constant,  who  were  just 
as  much  her  children  as  Addie's.  .  .  .  The  griev- 
ances accumulated  within  her:  grievances  against 
Papa,  Mamma,  the  sick  people  and  the  mad  people 
they  had  to  live  with  them — all  because  they  were 
relations — against  the  servants,  against  Truitje, 
against  everything  and  everybody.  .  .  .  Oh,  how 
gloomy  that  rainy  winter  had  been,  ever  and  ever 
raining,  with  the  great  wind  blustering  round  the 
house,  drawing  such  strange,  moaning  sounds  from 
the  creaking  windows  and  shutters  and  bellowing 
down  the  chimney,  till  ail  the  old  wood  of  the  house 
and  the  furniture  came  to  life,  took  soul  unto  itself 
and  squeaked  and  groaned,  until  the  whole  place  was 
one  errie  horror  of  inexplicable  noises !  .  .  . 
Those  noises,  oh,  those  noises!  They  all  knew  of 
them  and  not  one  of  them  spoke  of  them,  because, 
in  spite  of  it  all,  they  clung  to  the  old,  creepy 
haunted  house;  they  even  denied  their  existence  to 
her;  and  the  best  thing  that  Mathilde  could  do  was 
not  to  speak  about  them,  because  they  refused  to 
hear  them !  But  she  was  frightened,  she  had  gradu- 
ally become  frightened,  with  that  long  keeping 
indoors:  where  could  she  go,  with  the  rain,  the 
wind,  the  storm,  lashing  for  days  and  days?  She 
had  become  frightened,   frightened;  and  they,   all 


134  DR.  ADRIAAN 

of  them,  had  one  another,  whereas  she  had  nobody, 
with  her  husband  generally  out,  visiting  his  patients : 
she  had  only  her  two  little  children;  and  she  was 
frightened  on  their  account  too!  And  now,  when 
she  suddenly  came  upon  Ernst  on  the  stairs,  she 
became  frightened  again;  and  she  could  see  that  the 
children  also  were  frightened.  No,  she  was  not 
happy  and  she  was  angry  with  herself  at  not  being 
pluckier  and  choosing  poverty  and  economy — oh, 
how  sick  of  it  she  was ! — at  the  Hague  rather  than 
the  so-called  luxury  of  this  haunted  house.  And 
such  luxury:  the  furniture  old,  the  carpets  worn,  the 
table  very  simple;  really,  a  simple,  middle-class  life 
and  one  that  cost  thousands  and  thousands,  as  Addie 
would  assure  her  on  the  first  of  the  month,  when 
handing  her  her  allowance  for  herself  and  the 
children !  With  those  thousands  and  thousands  they 
could  surely  have  had  a  more  genuine  luxury,  if 
Papa  and  Mamma  and  Addie  hadn't  been  such  soft- 
hearted fools  as  to  take  in  that  pack  of  Uncle 
Gerrit's :  you  could  do  good  and  still  think  of  your- 
self. .  .  .  With  those  thousands — but  without  the 
pack — they  could  start  and  furnish  the  house  in  a 
better,  less  stuffy  and  more  modern  style;  paint  all 
those  brown,  gloomy  doors  a  cheerful  white  and 
gold;  have  cheerful  new  carpets,  curtains  and  furni- 
ture, with  flowers  and  Japanese  fans  in  the  con- 
servatory; make  a  summer-residence  of  the  house 
and  in  the  winter  live  at  the  Hague,  keep  their  car- 
riage, have  their  opera-box,  go  out  and  entertain. 
.  .  .  They  could  have '  lived  like  that.  Papa, 
Mamma  and  Addie,  if  they -had  wished,  for  the 
thousands  were  there  to  do  it  with;  at  the  Hague, 
Addie,  as  Baron  van  der  Welcke,  could  have  ac- 

?uired  a  smart  practice,  the  good-looking,  pleasant 
ellow   that   he   was  I   .    .    .   That   was    how   they 
might  have  lived,  deriving  some  enjoyment  from 


DR.  ADRIAAN  13^ 

their  money;  and  even  then  they  could  very  well 
have  helped  Aunt  Adeline  with  the  up-bringing  of 
her  children;  and  everyone  would  have  thought  it 
very  handsome  of  them  and  no  one  would  have 
thought  that  they  were  living  or  acting  unreasonably 
or  selfishly  or  inexplicably,  whereas  now!  .  .  . 
Whereas  now !  .  .  .  Locking  themselves  up  in  the 
dark  haunted  house,  all  through  the  long,  long  win- 
ter, with  nothing  but  sick  people,  all  through  the 
long,  long  winter,  with  nothing  but  sick  people,  no- 
thing but  mad  people  about  them !    .    ,    . 

Fortunately  it  had  begun  to  freeze.  It  was  as 
though  this  glorious  ice  had  brought  about  a  friend- 
lier feeling:  Gerdy  was  not  so  very  horrid;  Guy 
skated  with  Mathilde  because  she  was  a  good, 
finished  skater,  fond  of  good,  finished,  unwearied 
skating;  and  the  crisp  crystal  cold,  after  all  the  days 
of  rain  and  storm,  made  everybody  cheerful  and 
indulgent.  Oh,  those  skating-trips !  First  a  short 
journey  by  train;  and  then  along  the  waterways, 
endlessly,  endlessly !  And  she  was  so  grateful  when 
Addie,  one  single  morning,  was  able  to  escape  going 
to  all  those  sick,  poor  people,  whom  he  had  to  visit 
daily — she  hated  the  sight  and  the  feel  of  him  when 
he  returned — and  went  with  her,  for  half  a  day's 
skating!  And  she  took  possession  of  her  husband, 
glad  to  have  him  with  her,  with  crossed  hands, 
swaying  evenly  and  rhythmically  with  him,  in  the 
rhythm  of  hip  to  hip,  in  the  swing  of  firmly-shod 
feet,  while  she  cut  through  the  broad  blast  of  the 
wind  with  her  swift,  powerful  movement,  till  her 
eyes  and  face  shone  and  she  was  drunk  with  swallow- 
ing the  ice-cold  distance,  shooting  far  ahead  in  canal- 
vistas  between  the  snow-clad  meadows,  under  the 
low-hanging  skies,  swept  clean  as  with  giant  besoms 
of  wind,  while  the  horizons  of  skeleton  trees 
dwindled  and  faded  away,  and  the  wind-mills,  with 


136  DR.  ADRIAAN 

the  broad,  black,  silent  gestures  of  their  sails,  loomed 
up  and  disappeared  as  she  shot  past. 

Fortunately  it  had  begun  to  freeze.  It  seemed  to 
her  as  if,  suddenly,  in  these  days  of  winter  pastime, 
she  had  found  her  husband  again,  as  if  she  half 
felt  that  he  was  finding  her  again !  He  did  love 
her  then?  He  was  not  quite  indifferent  to  her? 
Through  her  glove,  she  felt  his  hand  glowing  in 
hers;  she  felt  the  swift  rhythm  of  their  hips  as  a 
voluptuousness;  and  she  could  have  hung  round  his 
neck  because  he  took  her  with  him  like  that,  rushing, 
rushing  over  the  straight  streaks  of  endless  smooth 
ice! 

"  Addie,  Addie,  you  do  love  me,  don't  you?  " 
Amid  the  swift  movement  she  looked  at  him  and 
laughed;  and  his  eyes  turned,  with  a  little  laugh,  to 
her.  Oh,  how  they  knew  how  to  laugh,  those  great, 
earnest  eyes  of  his,  with  the  often  strange  blue 
spark,  like  a  flash  of  secret  fire,  which  she  sometimes 
did  not  understand  but  which  she  understood  now! 
For  what  else  did  it  mean,  that  flash,  than  that 
he  loved  her  too,  that  he  thought  her  pretty?  And 
was  he  not  telling  her  with  his  eyes  as  he  had  often 
told  her  in  words  that  he  loved  her  because  she  was 
so  attractive,  so  palpably  healthy  and  pretty  and 
that  it  was  this  that  attracted  him  in  her:  her  pink- 
and-white  complexion,  her  rounded  form,  her  young 
and  vigorous  limbs?  Then  she  felt  him  akin  to 
herself,  a  young  man,  a  man  made  young  again,  a 
man  with  a  clear,  materialistic  soul;  and  in  this  man 
she  read  the  young  doctor,  who  loved  her  healthy 
body,  her  rich,  healthy  blood,  weary  as  he  must  be 
of  the  morbid  nerves  of  his  mother's  family!  Oh, 
those  Van  Lowe's:  she  hated  them  all,  she  felt 
herself  to  belong  to  another  race !  And  was  Addie 
himself,  like  his  father,  not  healthy,  simply  healthy 
and  manly,  a  good-looking  young  fellow,  a  man, 


DR.  ADRIAAN  137 

even  though  he  was  almost  prematurely  old?  Was 
he,  in  the  very  smallest  degree,  a  Van  Lowe,  with 
all  their  nerves,  the  morbidity,  their  semilunaq^,  so 
sickly  in  constitution  one  and  all,  that  she  could  not 
stand  any  one  of  them?  Bah,  they  turned  her 
stomach:  Adeletje,  always  ailing;  Marietje,  really 
very  ill;  Alex,  so  weak;  Emilie,  so  crushed  and 
melancholy:  a  Van  Naghel,  she,  but  still  with  Van 
Lowe  blood  in  her :  and  Guy  was  a  nice-looking  boy, 
but  so  dull  and  sleepy;  and  Gerdy  was  a  nice-looking 
girl,  but  full  of  eccentric  ways,  of  course  because 
she  was  a  Van  Lowe !  Bah,  they  turned  her  stomach, 
that  always  ailing,  half-mad  family  of  her  mother- 
in-law's,  who  had  ensconced  themselves  in  their 
house;  and  it  was  lucky  that  in  Addie  she  found 
simply  a  Van  der  Welcke,  Baron  van  der  Welcke, 
a  healthy  fellow  belonging  to  a  healthy,  normal 
family.  That  was  how  she  looked  at  it:  normal. 
That  was  how  she  looked  at  it  while  she  let  her 
husband  swing  her  along  the  endless,  endless  streaks 
of  ice;  the  snow-fields  flew  past;  the  horizons  of 
leafless  trees  approached,  changed  their  aspect,  dis- 
appeared; the  spreading  sails  of  the  windmills 
loomed  up,  disappeared,  loomed  up,  with  the  silent 
tragedy  of  their  despairing  gestures  outlined  against 
the  sky.  That  was  how  she  looked  at  it:  normal. 
True,  Addie  employed  hypnotism  from  time  to  time, 
but  that  was  the  fashion  nowadays:  he  could  not  lag 
behind  when  medicine  was  making  progress  in  all 
directions.  .  .  .  And,  utterly  blind  to  the  really 
duplicate  soul  that  was  her  husband's,  she  saw  him 
merely  single,  simple  and  normal,  because  she  re- 
membered now,  in  the  joy  of  their  sport  on  the  ice, 
the  vigorous  embrace  of  his  arms,  the  hunger  and 
thirst  of  his  unsated  kisses.  .  .  .  Normal,  quite 
normal;  and  oh,  she  felt  herself  so  strong  now  to 
win  him,  to  bind  him  to  herself,  because  she  herself 


138  DR.  ADRIAAN 

was  comely  and  healthy  and  normal:  his  delight, 
when  he  was  tired  of  every  sort  of  ailment;  his 
luxury,  which  already  had  given  him  two  pretty 
children.  .  .  .  People  were  skating  in  front  of 
her,  behind  her,  like  the  pair  of  them;  and  she  was 
proud  that  she  was  skating  with  her  husband;  she 
would  not  let  him  go;  he  was  hers;  he  was 
hers.   .    .    . 

It  was  fortunate  that  it  had  begun  to  freeze. 
They  had  had  three  fine  days  and  this  was  the 
fourth;  and  already — alas! — a  touch  of  thaw 
seemed  to  slacken  the  crystal-clear  firmness  of  the 
sky  which  had  been  so  transparent  at  first.  But  still 
the  ice  was  in  no  way  impaired;  a  trip  was  planned 
and  Mathilde  felt  sure  that  Addie  would  come. 
And  great  was  her  disappointment  when  he  said : 

*'  Not  to-day,  Tilly.  I  must  go  to  my  patients 
this  morning." 

"  You  managed  with  the  afternoon  yesterday." 

"  I  can't  wait  so  long  this  time :  there's  an  old 
woman  who  expects  me.  And  Marietje  isn't  so  well 
.to-day:  Mary,  I  mean,  as  Mamma  calls  her." 

"  Then  I  sha'n't  go  either,"  she  said,  crossly. 

"Why  shouldn't  you  go?"  he  persisted,  gently. 
"  You  enjoy  it  so." 

"  With  you." 

"  I  can't  come  this  morning." 

"  Yes,  you  can   ...   to  please  me." 

"  No,  I  can't  come  this  morning,  Tilly.  But  you 
would  please  me  by  going." 

*'  I  like  skating  with  you." 

His  eyes  laughed. 

"  And  do  you  imagine  that  I  don't  enjoy  it?  " 

"  You  don't  love  me." 

*'  You  know  better." 

"  Then  come." 

"  Not  this  morning." 


DR.  ADRIAAN  139 

"  You're  always  so  self-willed." 

"  Because  I  mustn't  go  this  morning.   ...   Be 
sensible  now  and  go  without  me." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders: 

"  All  right,  I'll  go,  I'll  go." 

It  was  just  after  breakfast;  and  the  children  were 
still  downstairs.  He  played  with  them:  Constant 
toddled  to  him  on  shaky  legs;  Addie  held  Jetje  on 
his  arm  and  rubbed  his  moustache  against  her  milk- 
white  little  face,  to  make  her  laugh  and  crow.  A 
soft  feeling  of  bliss  welled  within  him,  because  he 
was  pressing  against  him  a  life  that  was  his  life,  a 
small  shrine  of  frail  and  tender  child  body  in  which 
flashed  an  atom  of  soul  that  laughed  and  crowed 
and  lived.  And  the  baby  was  so  ordinary,  a  baby 
just  hke  other  babies,  when  he  looked  at  it  as  a 
doctor;  and  the  baby  was  so  mystic  when,  as  a 
father,  he  pressed  it  to  himself.  What  was  more 
mystic  than  a  little  child?  What  was  more  mys- 
terious and  higher  in  divine  incomprehensibility  than 
a  little  child,  a  little  child  born  just  ordinarily  a  few 
months  ago?  What  was  more  divinely  mysterious 
and  mystic  than  birth  and  the  dawn  of  life?  Where 
did  it  come  from,  the  baby  with  its  tiny  atom  of  soul, 
the  baby  which  his  wife  had  borne  him?  As  a 
doctor,  he  laughed  at  his  own  naive  question;  as 
a  father  and  man,  he  grew  grave  in  awe  of  it.  .  .  . 
He  felt  two  beings  within  himself,  more  and  more 
clearly  every  day;  two  beings  long  maintained  in 
a  strange  equilibrium,  but  now  trembling,  as  at  a 
test.  He  felt  two  within  himself:  the  ordinary, 
normal,  practical,  almost  prematurely  old,  earnest 
young  scientist  and  doctor;  and  within  that  soul  his 
second  soul:  a  soul  of  mystery,  of  divine  incompre- 
hensibility; a  soul  full  of  mysticism;  a  soul  full  of 
unfathomable  force,  a  force  which  unloosed  a  magic 
that  was  salutary  to  many.   .    .    .   And,  when  that 


I40  DR.  ADRIAAN 

magic  passed  out  of  him,  salutary  to  many,  he  would 
feel  himself  normal,  practical  and  serious,  but  sud- 
denly blind  for  himself,  as  though  he  knew  nothing 
for  himself,  because  he  was  two  souls,  too  much 
two  souls  to  know  things  for  himself.  .  .  .  Oh, 
what  was  more  incomprehensible  than  the  essence  of 
life,  what  more  incomprehensible  than  himself,  what 
more  incomprehensible  than  this  little  baby  and  that 
little  toddling  boy!  .  .  .  And  it  was  born  so  sim- 
ply, in  the  womb  of  a  healthy  woman,  and  it  grew 
up  so  ordinarily;  and  that  very  ordinary  growth  was 
as  great  a  riddle  as  anything  or  everything.  .  .  . 
Oh,  who  knew,  what  did  anyone  know  ?  .  .  .  And 
the  strangest  thing  of  all  was  that  he  knew,  with  a 
strange  consciousness  for  others,  what  to  do,  what 
to  say,  how  to  act;  that  he  had  known,  uncon- 
sciously, as  a  child,  when  he  had  spoken  words  of 
consolation  to  his  father,  to  his  mother;  later,  con- 
sciously, with  a  salutary  and  sacred  knowledge,  not 
alone  for  father  and  mother  but  for  others,  for  so 
many,  for  so  many ! 

Now  he  handed  her  back  to  the  nurse,  his  little 
Jetje,  his  little  riddle  of  birth  and  the  dawn  of  life, 
his  little  atom  of  soul;  now  he  stroked  the  silky 
curls  of  Constant,  who  was  clinging  to  his  legs,  and 
went  upstairs,  knowing.  How  strange  that  was  in 
him,  that  calm,  quiet  knowledge,  that  certainty  of 
his  will,  which  would  shine  forth  in  a  setting  of  calm 
speech !  .  .  .  He  went  up  the  stairs,  to  the  top 
floor,  to  what  used  to  be  Guy's  room,  where  Guy 
had  generally  sat  in  the  morning  bending  over  his 
books  and  maps,  until,  in  an  impulse  of  youthful 
restlessness,  he  would  wander  through  the  house, 
looking  for  his  sisters  or  aunt.  Marietje  now  occu- 
pied the  room,  or  Mary,  as  she  was  usually  called. 
.  .  .  Addie  knocked  and  she  asked  who  was  there, 
kept  him  waiting  for  a  moment  in  her  modesty  as 


DR.  ADRIAAN  141 

she  nervously  tidied  something  in  her  room  and  put 
away  her  clothes.  When  he  entered,  she  was  sitting 
in  a  big  arm-chair,  looking  very  pale.    .    .    . 

But  Mathilde,  angry  that  Addie  had  refused  to 
come  skating,  suddenly  felt  a  violent  jealousy,  a 
violent,  dagger-sharp  jealousy  in  her  soul,  because 
Addie  had  spoken  of  patients  who  expected  him  and 
because  he  had  spoken  of  Marietje.  And,  in  her 
room,  undecided  whether  to  go  or  not,  whether  to 
stay  indoors  and  sulk  or  to  seek  her  amusement 
without  her  husband,  she  suddenly  felt  an  irresistible 
impulse  to  follow  her  husband  upstairs.  She  went; 
and,  in  order  to  keep  in  countenance  should  she  meet 
anybody,  she  resolved  that  she  would  pretend  to  be 
fetching  a  coat  hanging  in  a  wardrobe-closet  next 
to  Marietje's  room.  The  wardrobes  were  used  for 
clothes  that  were  not  worn  every  day.  Entering  the 
closet,  she  softly  closed  the  door  and  held  her  keys 
in  her  hand :  if  she  were  surprised,  she  would  quietly 
open  the  big  wardrobe.  Meanwhile  she  listened  at 
the  partition.  And  she  heard  the  voices  of  her  hus- 
band and  Marietje  as  though  they  were  sounding 
across  a  distance  and  an  obstacle : 

"  How  did  you  sleep,  Marietje?  " 

"  I  haven't  slept  at  all." 

"  What  was  the  matter?  " 

"  All  night  long  I  had  a  buzzing  in  my  ears.  .  .  . 
It  was  a  roaring  and  roaring  like  the  sea.  ...  I 
wanted  to  get  up  and  come  downstairs  ...  to 
Auntie,  but  I  was  afraid  to  .  .  .  and  I  didn't  want 
to  disturb  the  house.  ...  It  was  just  like  waves. 
...  I  didn't  sleep  at  all.  .  .  .  And  then  I 
dream,  I  dream  while  I  lie  awake.  .  .  .  All  sorts 
of  things  flash  out  before  me,  like  visions.  .  .  . 
And  it  makes  the  night  so  long,  so  endless.  .  .  . 
And  I  feel  so  tired  now  and  above  all  so  hopeless. 
I  shall  never  get  well." 


142  DR.  ADRIAAN 

"  Yes,  you  will." 

"  No,  Addie.    I  have  always  been  ill." 

"  You  must  have  a  quiet  sleep  now." 

"  I  sha'n't  be  able  to." 

"  Yes.  Come  and  lie  here  on  the  sofa.  I'll  draw 
the  blinds." 

"  Addie  1" 

"What  is  it,  Marietje?" 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  should  like  ?  " 

"What?" 

"  I  should  like,  when  you  have  put  me  to  sleep, 
as  you  did  yesterday  and  the  day  before,  I  should 
like  never  to  wake  again,  to  remain  asleep  always. 
I  should  like  your  voice  to  lull  me  to  sleep  for  ever 
and  ever." 

"  And  why  don't  you  want  to  go  on  living? 
You're  young  and  you  will  get  better." 

"  Tell  me  what's  the  matter  with  me." 

"  Don't  think  about  that." 

"  My  body  is  ill,  but  isn't  my  soul  ill  too?  " 

"Don't  think  about  that;  and  lie  down  .  .  . 
keep  very  still  .  .  .  give  me  your  hand.  .  .  . 
Hush,  sleep  is  coming,  peaceful  sleep.  .  .  .  The 
eyelids  are  closing.  .  .  .  The  eyelids  feel  heavier 
and  heavier.  .  .  .  The  eyelids  are  closing.  .  .  . 
Heavier  and  heavier  the  eyelids.  .  .  .  You  can't 
lift  them,  you  can't  lift  them.  .  .  .  The  hand 
grows  heavier  and  heavier;  you  can't  lift  the  hand, 
.  .  .  The  whole  body  is  growing  heavy,  heavy, 
heavier  and  heavier  with  sleep,  peaceful  sleep,  com- 
ing, coming.   ..." 

Mathilde  listened  breathlessly  at  the  partition. 
All  was  silent  now  in  Marietje's  room;  Mathilde 
no  longer  heard  Addie's  soothing  voice  summoning 
sleep,  the  magic  of  peaceful  sleep.  And  suddenly,  as 
she  listened,  she  grew  frightened,  she,  Mathilde, 
grew  frightened  of  things  which  she  did  not  under- 


DR.  ADRIAAN  143 

stand,  grew  frightened  as  she  was  frightened  when, 
in  the  evening,  late,  she  went  along  the  dark  pas- 
sages and  the  dark  staircases.  And  yet  it  was 
morning  now  and  the  wintry  reflexion  of  the  snow, 
a  little  faded  by  the  first  touch  of  the  thaw,  fell 
shrill  into  the  narrow  closet,  without  any  shade  of 
mystery.    .    .    . 

She  trembled  where  she  knelt,  frightened  of  what 
she  did  not  understand.  She  trembled  and  in  her 
trembling  became  conscious  of  a  fierce  jealousy  not 
only  of  Marietje  but  of  all  Addie's  patients,  those 
outside,  whom  she  had  never  seen,  living  in  their 
poor  little  houses,  which  she  did  not  know.  But 
she  was  most  jealous  of  Marietje.  Was  the  girl 
asleep  now?  .  .  .  She  heard  Addie's  footstep, 
heard  his  hand  on  the  handle  of  the  door,  heard  him 
go  out.  He  was  going  out  .  .  .  Marietje  was  no 
doubt  asleep.  .  .  .  She  waited  a  few  seconds 
longer,  heard  the  stairs  creak  lightly  under  his  feet 
as  he  went  down;  and  now,  after  her  fears  and 
jealousy,  she  was  seized  with  curiosity.  She  left 
the  wardrobe-closet,  listened  in  the  passage  outside 
Marietje's  door.  And  suddenly,  grasping  the  handle 
firmly  and  carefully,  she  opened  the  door  and  saw 
Marietje  slumbering  peacefully  in  the  darkened 
room,  her  face  white  and  relaxed  on  the  sofa- 
cushions.  Then  she  closed  the  door  again  and  went 
downstairs.  She  was  no  longer  frightened,  no 
longer  curious;  only  her  jealousy  burnt  fiercely 
within  her,  like  jn  angry  fever.  She  had  just  time 
to  put  on  her  things  and  pick  up  her  skates:  Guy, 
Gerdy  and  their  friends  were  waiting  for  her  down- 
stairs.  ... 


CHAPTER  XIII 

That  evening  Gerdy  said  to  Constance : 

"Auntie,  Mathilde  carried  on  like  a  lunatic  to- 
day.  ..." 

But  Constance  refused  to  listen.  She  well  knew 
that  there  was  no  love  lost  between  Mathilde  and 
the  rest  of  them;  and  it  always  upset  her  that,  on 
the  one  hand,  Mathilde  always  remained  a  stranger 
and  that,  on  the  other,  one  of  the  children  always 
had  some  remark  to  make  about  Mathilde.  She, 
on  the  contrary  was  always  glossing  over  Mathilde's 
shortcomings  and  nearly  always  took  her  side. 

"  Honestly,  Auntie,  Mathilde  carried  on  like  a 
lunatic  this  afternoon.    ..." 

Gerdy  was  in  a  great  state  of  excitement  and  she 
determined  to  tell  her  story.  It  was  after  dinner, 
tea  had  not  yet  been  served  and  Mathilde  was  up- 
stairs, putting  the  children  to  bed.  The  others  in 
the  room  were  Adeline,  Emilie  and  Guy;  Granny 
was  sitting  in  her  corner.  And  Constance  refused  to 
listen : 

"  You  mustn't  always  be  so  intolerant  .  .  . 
about  Mathilde,"  said  Constance,  by  way  of 
reprimand. 

"Intolerant?  Intolerant?"  echoed  Gerdy,  ex- 
citedly. "  But  you  didn't  see  her,  the  insane  way 
she  behaved.  .  .  .  We  were  on  the  ice  .  .  . 
and  ..."  She  lowered  her  voice  to  a  whisper, 
though  Granny  was  not  likely  to  understand.  "  We 
were  on  the  ice  .  .  .  and  there  were  others:  the 
Erzeeles  from  Utrecht  and  Johan  Erzeele  from  the 
Hague,  you  know,  the  one  who's  in  the  grenadiers. 

144 


DR.  ADRIAAN  145 

.  .  .  Yes,  I  know,  Mathilde  and  he  are  old 
acquaintances,  she  used  often  to  dance  with  him 
.  .  .  but  that's  no  reason  for  carrying  on  with 
him  as  she  did." 

*'  I  say,  it  wasn't  as  bad  as  all  that,"  said  Guy, 
in  a  tone  of  palliation. 

"  Not  as  bad  as  all  that,  not  as  bad  as  all  that?  " 
repeated  Gerdy,  very  angrily,  because  Guy,  Con- 
stance and  everybody  were  making  excuses  for 
Mathilde.  "Not  as  bad  as  all  that?  Well,  if  I 
was  married,  or  even  unmarried,  I  should  be 
ashamed  to  carry  on  like  that  with  any  man,  though 
I'd  met  him  at  a  hundred  dances !  " 

"  Do  let  Mathilde  enjoy  herself,"  said  Constance. 
"  Really,  she  has  so  little   ..." 

"So  little  what?"  said  Gerdy,  almost  imperti- 
nently. "  She  has  everything,  she  has  everything 
she  could  wish  for!  She  has  a  darling  of  a  hus- 
band, she  has  the  sweetest  of  children  .  .  .  she 
has  everything.    .    .    ." 

"  But  she  sometimes  feels  ...  a  little  neglected 
and  strange  .  .  .  among  all  of  us,"  said  Con- 
stance, still  taking  Mathilde's  part.  "  So,  if  she's 
a  little  irresponsible  once  in  a  way,  I  don't  grudge 
it  her  for  a  moment." 

"  But  it  was  more  than  being  irresponsible,  it  was 
much  worse :  she  was  simply  carrying  on !  " 

"  For  shame,  Gerdy !  You  mustn't  be  so  spite- 
ful." 

Gerdy  shrugged  her  shoulders  angrily.  She 
simply  doted  on  Aunt  Constance;  nothing  on  earth 
would  induce  her  to  quarrel  with  Aunt  Constance: 
Aunt  Constance,  who  was  so  kind  to  all  of  them; 
and  so  she  preferred  to  say  nothing.  But  her  dear, 
eager  little  soul  was  up  in  arms ;  she  was  very  angry 
indeed;  she  pitied  Addie.  She  was  so  angry,  she 
felt  such  pity  for  Addie  that  really  she   did  not 


146  DR.  ADRIAAN 

quite  understand  her  own  feelings.  After  all,  this 
was  not  the  first  time  that  Mathilde  had  annoyed 
her;  she  had  never  liked  Mathilde;  it  was  enough 
to  make  her  spill  the  tea  or  the  milk  if  Mathilde 
entered  the  room  unexpectedly;  and  so  she  really 
could  not  quite  understand  why  she  was  so  very 
angry  and  thinking  so  much  of  Addie,  simply  be- 
cause Mathilde  had  carried  on  so  with  Johan 
Erzeele,  why  it  should  irritate  her  so  that  Con- 
stance— on  principle,  she  could  understand  that 
much — was  taking  Mathilde's  part,  why  it  should 
irritate  her  that  Mamma  and  Emilie  were  sitting 
so  sad  and  silent,  that  Granny  was  sitting  so  feeble 
and  silently  trembling  in  her  far  corner,  why  it 
should  irritate  her  that  Adeletje  and  Guy  should 
keep  on  playing  backgammon : 

"Three  and  four.   ..."  ' 

"  Two  and  five.  .  .  .  Imperial.  .  .  .  Once 
more.   ..." 

She  was  very  much  overwrought;  and,  when 
Mathilde  came  in  for  tea — the  children  were  now 
asleep — Gerdy's  little  face  quivered;  she  could 
hardly  contain  herself;  but  she  made  the  effort,  be- 
cause Constance  was  looking  at  her  in  such  surprise. 
And,  to  keep  herself  in  countenance,  she  went  in 
search  of  Uncle  Henri,  found  Van  der  Welcke  in 
the  passage,  on  the  point  of  coming  in,  and  asked 
him: 

"  Uncle,  are  you  coming  to  play  a  rubber?  " 
"  If  you  like,  dear.    Who's  going  to  make  up?" 
"  Marietje,  I  dare  say,  and  Alex." 
"Is  the  other  Marietje,  Mary,  downstairs?" 
"  No,  Uncle,  she's  up  in  her  room." 
"  This  house  of  ours  is  a  regular  hospital,  eh?  " 
"  Oh,   it's  not  as  bad  as  that,  Uncle  I    ...   I 
think  it's  a  very  nice  house." 
"You  do,  do  you?" 


DR.  ADRIAAN  147 

Gerdy,  usually  so  cheerful,  suddenly  became 
very  nervous,  cross  and  angry,  very  limp;  and 
she  didn't  understand  herself,  couldn't  understand 
herself.   .    .    . 

"  Well,  come  and  have  a  rubber." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I'm  coming.  .  .  .  Don't  hustle  your 
uncle :  he's  getting  old." 

But  Gerdy  laughed,  shrilly,  though  she  had  to 
keep  back  her  tears : 

"  You'll  never  be  old." 

"You  think  that?" 

"  No,  never." 

"  Ah  I  Then  I  shall  remain  a  scapegrace  to  my 
dying  day?  " 

"  No,  a  dear,  kind  uncle.  .  .  .  But  come  and 
have  a  rubber  now." 

She  dragged  him  into  the  room.  Constance  grum- 
bled mildly: 

"  Gerdy,  you're  just  like  a  naughty  child.  Every 
time  you  run  out  of  the  room,  you  leave  the  door 
open." 

And  Gerdy,  from  being  limp,  became  filled  with 
poignant  self-pity.  Aunt  Constance  had  ceased  to 
care  for  her,  cared  more  for  her  daughter-in-law, 
Mathilde.  .  .  .  Everybody,  everybody  cared  more 
for  Mathilde.  .  .  .  Addie,  Johan  Erzeele :  they  all 
cared  more  for  Mathilde.  .  .  .  She,  Gerdy,  was 
misjudged  by  everybody  .  .  .  everybody  except 
Uncle  Henri,  who  was  nice  and  kind.    .    .    . 

She  made  a  great  effort,  mastered  herself,  mas- 
tered her  volatile  emotions.  Alex  had  come  over 
that  Saturday  from  Amsterdam,  where  he  was  now 
boarding  with  a  tutor  at  the  Merchants'  School ;  and 
he  and  Marietje  soon  got  the  bridge-table  ready. 
And  it  became  quite  a  serious  rubber,  in  the  still, 
pale-yellow  atmosphere  of  the  big  living-room, 
where  the  lamps  shone  sleepily  through  their  yellow- 


148  DR.  ADRIAAN 

silk  shades,  just  bright  enough  to  light  the  books 
or  crochet-work  in  the  hands  of  the  silent  women, 
Constance,  Adeline,  Emilie.  ...  At  about  nine 
o'clock  there  was  a  certain  movement  in  those  inti- 
mate, silent,  almost  melancholy  indoor  lines  and 
colours,  when  Adeline  took  Klaasje  to  bed  and  Con- 
stance and  Adeletje  helped  Grandmamma  upstairs: 
the  child  and  the  old  woman  at  the  same  hour,  the 
one  never  outgrowing  her  first  childhood,  the  other 
relapsing  into  her  second,  after  so  well  knowing  the 
many  sad  things  that  were  to  come,  that  had  come, 
that  had  already  faded  away,  even  as  all  life,  that 
comes  and  goes,  fades  away  in  the  faded  pallor  of 
the  past.  .  .  .  And,  when  Constance  and  Adeline 
returned  downstairs  together,  they  seemed  to  hear 
the  wind  getting  up  around  the  house;  and  Adeline 
said,  on  the  stairs : 

"  Listen,  the  wind's  getting  up." 

"  There's  a  change  in  the  weather,"  said  Con- 
stance. 

"  That  means  thaw ;  it's  a  westerly  wind  and  we 
shall  have  rain." 

On  entering  the  room,  they  found  Ernst  there. 
He  often  came  round  in  the  evenings.  He  watched 
Gerdy's  cards  and  sat  very  still,  never  spoke  much, 
feeling  that  they  never  understood  what  he  said 
and  that  it  was  better  to  talk  to  them  as  little  as 
possible,  even  though  there  was  some  good  about 
them,  even  though  they  were  not  utterly  depraved, 
even  though  they  meant  the  suffering  souls  no  harm, 
although  once  in  a  way,  all  of  them,  they  would 
trample  on  them  unconsciously,  because  they  did 
not  see  and  understand  and  because  they  were  so 
stupid  and  so  innately  rough.  .  .  .  Nevertheless, 
rough  and  stupid  as  they  were,  they  were  his  rela- 
tions and  he  came  and  looked  them  up,  feeling  at 
home  in  the  house  of  his  sister  Constance  and  her 


DR.  ADRIAAN  149 

husband,  in  the  house  also  of  Addie,  who  was  the 
cleverest  of  them  all  and  who,  he  felt  certain,  did 
hear  and  see  the  souls,  for  he  often  spared  them. 
.  .  .  He  now  stared  at  the  cards  and  thought  of 
the  rubbers  at  Mamma's  in  the  Alexanderstraat, 
when  he  used  to  go  there  on  Sundays  in  the  old 
days.  .  .  .  Strange,  that  everything  changed,  that 
nothing  remained,  he  thought.  ...  It  was  no 
longer  the  Hague  now:  it  was  Driebergen;  it  was 
Van  der  Welcke's  house  and  Gerrit's  children: 
Gerrit,  how  rough,  how  very  rough  he  used  to  be, 
but  even  so  not  exactly  wicked  and  depraved !  And 
the  cards  as  they  were  played  one  after  the  other 
fell  from  the  fingers  of  Van  der  Welcke,  Gerdy, 
Alex  and  Marietje.  The  same  game;  only  life 
changed;  the  game  did  not  change  nor  did  the  souls, 
the  poor  souls,  ever  and  ever  suffering  around  him, 
linking  themselves  to  his  soul  with  dragging  chains. 
.  .  .  He  sat  in  silence  and  followed  the  play  of 
the  hand,  understood  it,  nodded  his  approval  of 
Van  der  Welcke's  careful  game.    .    .    . 

Mathilde  had  come  in;  so  had  Addie,  for  a  mo- 
ment, before  going  upstairs  to  work;  and  they  met 
as  husband  and  wife  who,  after  dinner,  in  a  bustling 
house,  seek  each  other  out  for  a  moment  to  ex- 
change a  word  or  two.  Mathilde's  eyes  were  red, 
Addie  looked  serious;  and  they  all  noticed  it;  it 
struck  them,  it  saddened  them,  while  they  heard  the 
wind  flapping  like  a  sagging  sail  and  the  panes 
lightly  creaking  and  the  windows  lightly  rattling  in 
their  frames.  .  .  .  Constance  wondered  what  had 
happened  and  thought  that  it  must  be  Mathilde, 
always  urging  him  to  move  to  the  Hague;  and 
Addie  would  be  quite  willing,  for  his  wife's  sake, 
but  then  the  money-question  would  crop  up  and 
remain  insoluble,  because  Mathilde  would  not  be 
economical.   .    .    .  And  that  indeed  was  how  it  was; 


I50  DR.  ADRIAAN 

and  they  had  lost  each  other,  Addie  and  Mathilde; 
and  they  would  find  each  other  again  in  a  rebirth 
of  desire,  when  Addie  reflected : 

"What  a  beautiful,  healthy  woman  she  Isl  And 
we  have  to  be  healthy  in  our  bodies  and  normal  in 
our  longings  if  we  would  be  healthy  of  soul,  in  the 
life  of  our  bodies  and  our  physical  being." 

On  the  evening  after  the  excursion  on  the  ice,  they 
found  each  other  again.  The  wind  had  lashed  their 
blood  to  a  warm  glow,  the  exercise  had  sent  it 
coursing  through  their  veins.  Love  was  reborn  of 
their  embrace  until  drowsiness  overtook  them.  And 
Mathilde  thought  that  she  had  found  him  again  and 
Addie  thought  that  he  had  found  her  again,  because 
their  kisses  had  sealed  one  to  the  other,  because 
their  arms  had  clasped  one  to  the  other,  but  they 
lost  each  other  again  at  once,  as  ever  and  always, 
because  Mathilde  just  did  not  know  him  in  his  two- 
sided  soul  and  he  never  knew  things  for  himself, 
whatever  he  might  know  for  others,  in  the  clarity 
of  his  knowledge;  in  any  of  the  manifestations  of 
the  instinctive  knowledge  which  he  knew  silently 
and  blissfully  in  his  soul's  soul:  the  hidden  spark, 
from  which  treasure  shone. 

Mathilde  sat  down  quietly  in  a  corner,  sitting  a 
little  way  from  the  others,  to  catch  the  light  of  a 
lamp  on  her  book;  and  Addie  remained  for  only 
a  moment,  saying  that  he  had  work  to  do.  And, 
as  he  went  out  of  the  door,  there  was  a  sudden 
draught,  so  that  the  lamps  flickered  and  smoked  and 
nearly  went  out. 

"  There's  something  open,"  said  Constance. 
"  Where  can  that  wind  come  from?  " 

"  I'll  look,"  said  Addie,  closing  the  door. 

"  You  see,"  said  Gerdy,  pursing  up  her  mouth 
and  turning  to  Aunt  Constance,  "  you  see  it's  not 
always  my  fault  when  there's  a  draught." 


DR.  ADRIAAN  151 

Silence  fell;  there  was  not  a  sound  but  the  hard 
tap  of  the  dice  on  the  backgammon-board  and  the 
rustle  of  the  cards  as  they  were  played,  while  Con- 
stance, Adeline,  Emilie  and  Mathilde  read  or 
worked,  and  the  evening  hours  in  the  soft  light  of 
the  sitting-room  dozed  away  as  with  soft-trailing 
minutes  and  quarters,  dull  reflexions  in  the  mirrors, 
faint  lamplight  on  the  furniture  and  the  rhythmical 
ticking  of  the  clock  in  the  almost  entire  silence, 
broken  only  now  and  again  by  an  occasional  word, 
at  the  card-table,  or  when  Guy  said : 

"  It's  blowing  .  .  .  and  thawing.  .  .  .  There'll 
be  no  skating  to-morrow.   ..." 

A  piercing  scream  rang  through  the  house;  and 
the  scream  so  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  penetrated 
the  silence  of  the  stairs  and  passages  of  the  great 
house,  outside  the  room  in  which  they  were  sitting, 
that  all  of  them  started,  suddenly : 

"What's  that?   .    .    .   What's  that?   ..." 

They  all  sprang  up ;  the  cards,  thanks  to  Gerdy's 
fright,  fell  on  the  floor,  and  lay  flat  with  their  gaudy 
pictures.  When  Van  der  Welcke  opened  the  door, 
there  was  no  longer  any  draught;  the  maids  were 
running  into  the  hall,  anxiously,  through  the  open 
door  of  the  kitchen.  Everybody  asked  questions  at 
once.  They  heard  Addie  come  down  a  staircase; 
and  the  hurried  creaking  of  his  firm  step  on  the 
stairs  reassured  the  women.  They  called  out  to 
him,  he  to  them;  and,  amid  their  confusion,  they 
at  last  heard  his  voice,  clearly: 

"Help  me!   .    .    .   Here!   .    .    ." 

"Where?   ..." 

"  On  the  stairs." 

They  ran  up  the  stairs. 

"  On  the  back-staircase !  "  they  heard  him  call. 

And  Constance  saw  that  the  partition  door  was 
standing  ajar  at  the  end  of  the  long  passage.     She 


152  DR.  ADRIAAN 

gave  a  cold  shiver  and  she  heard  Mathilde  suddenly 
say: 

"  Oh,  nothing  .  .  .  nothing  will  induce  me  to 
go  up  that  staircase !  " 

But  she  forced  herself  and  went;  and  the  others 
followed  her. 

They  found  Addie  on  the  small,  narrow  back- 
staircase;  and  he  was  carrying  Marietje,  Mary,  in 
his  arms.  She  hung  against  him  unconscious,  like 
a  white  bundle  of  clothes,  with  her  nerveless  arms 
hanging  slack  and  limp. 

"What  happened?" 

"  I  heard  her  call  out.  .  .  .  The  staircase-door 
above  was  open.  ...  I  expect  she  meant  to  go 
downstairs  ...  to  fetch  something  .  .  .  and 
was  taken  ill  on  the  stairs.  .  .  .  Help  me,  can't 
you?"  he  said,  almost  impatiently. 

The  women  helped  him  carry  Marietje  upstairs. 
They  all  went  up  now,  to  their  rooms;  the  maids, 
still  pale  and  trembling,  put  out  the  lamps  in  the 
sitting-room;  and  silence  and  darkness  fell  over  the 
house,  as  they  went  creaking  up  the  stairs,  with 
candles  in  their  hands. 

The  wind  outside  increased  in  violence;  and  the 
dripping  thaw  pattered  against  the  panes. 

The  three  sisters  were  together  in  their  bed- 
rooms: Marietje  and  Gerdy  in  their  room,  Adeletje 
in  her  own  room,  with  the  door  open  between  them. 
And  they  spoke  very  low,  in  whispering  voices : 

"  I'm  getting  used  to  it,"  said  Marietje,  sensibly; 
"  I'm  no  longer  frightened." 

"  I  heard  it  quite  lately,"  said  Gerdy. 

And  Adeletje  answered: 

"  Yes,  I  hear  it  nearly  every  evening." 

*'  Uncle  and  Aunt  don't  speak  about  it." 

"  No,  it's  better  not  to." 

"  It's  always  the  same  sound :  like  the  dragging 


DR.  ADRIAAN  153 

of  heavy  footsteps,  in  the  garret,  under  the 
roof  .    .    ."    . 

"  And  then  it  goes  downstairs." 

"  Yes   .    .    .   then  it  goes  downstairs." 

"  Uncle  had  the  garret  examined." 

"  Addie  has  been  up  there,  with  Guy." 

"  They  found  nothing." 

"  It  can't  be  a  rat." 

"  It's  quite  unaccountable." 

"  I'm  getting  so  used  to  it,"  said  Marietje. 

"  It  sometimes  comes  down  the  little  staircase." 

"  Aunt  Constance  is  afraid  of  the  little  staircase." 

"She  doesn't  like  the  house  at  all." 

"  But  Uncle  does  and  Addie  does." 

"  Mathilde  was  so  frightened!  " 

"  Uncle  and  Addie  wouldn't  like  to  leave  the 
house." 

"  And  it's  a  nice  house,"  said  Gerdy.  "  I  .  .  . 
I'm  frightened  myself  lately  .  .  .  and  yet  I'm  fond 
of  the  house." 

"  I  love  the  house  too,"  said  Adeletje.  "  It's 
so  brown,  so  dark  .  .  .  like  something  safe  and 
something  very  dear  .  .  .  around  us  all.  I  should 
be  very  sorry  to  leave  the  house.  I  shall  never 
marry — shall  I? — because  I'm  ugly  and  delicate 
.  .  .  and  I  shall  always  remain  with  Uncle  and 
Aunt.   ..." 

Gerdy  took  her  in  her  arms. 

"  You  won't,"  Adeletje  went  on.  "  You'll  marry 
one  day,  Gerdy   .    .    .    and  so  will  Marietje." 

"  Oh,  stop !  "  said  Gerdy.  "  Do  stop,  Adeletje  I 
,  .  .  What  are  you  talking  about  marriage !  .  .  . 
I'm  ugly  as  well;  nobody  likes  me!  " 

"  Listen !  "  said  Marietje. 

"What  did  you  hear?" 

"The  sound   ...   I  thought." 

"  I  hear  nothing." 


154  DR.  ADRIAAN 

"  Listen !  " 

"Yes,  listen  1" 

"  It's  trailing  up  the  stairs." 

"Oh,  I'm  frightened,  I'm  frightened!"  said 
Gerdy. 

The  sisters  all  crept  together. 

"  I'm  not  frightened,"  said  Marietje.  "  I  often 
hear  it,  like  that." 

"What  is  it?" 

""The  maids  say  ..." 

"What?" 

"That  it's  ..." 

"Who?" 

"The  old  man.   ..." 

"  Hush  1  " 

"  Listen,  listen  I  " 

"  They  say  the  house  is  haunted." 

"  It  may  be  nothing  at  all,"  said  Marietje.  "  It 
may  be  the  wind,  making  a  draught." 

"  But  everything's  shut." 

"  Old  houses  have  queer  draughts  sometimes,  for 
all  that." 

"  The  furniture's  old  too." 

"Listen,  it's  trailing!  " 

"  That's  the  wind." 

"  There's  the  same  trailing  sound  in  the  wind 
sometimes,  blowing  round  the  house.  I'm  getting 
used  to  it,"  said  Marietje. 

"  Yes,"  said  Adeletje,  "  one  gets  used,  one  gets 
used  to  everything.  ...  I  shall  always  remain  in 
this  house,  with  Uncle  and'  Aunt.    I  love  them." 

"  They  never  talk  about  it." 

"  That's  by  far  the  best  way." 

"  Mathilde,  how  frightened  she  Is!  " 

"  Listen,  listen !    It's  going  upstairs  1  " 

"  It's  the  wind  .  .  .  taking  the  draught  up- 
stairs." 


DR.  ADRIAAN  155 

*'  In  an  old  house  .  .  .  it's  as  though  the  old 
wood  were  alive." 

"  And  the  furniture." 

"What  can  have  been  the  matter  with  Mary?" 

"Can  she   .    .    .   have  seen  anything?" 

"  No." 

"  No,  no." 

"  She  wanted  to  fetch  something.  .  .  .  She 
fainted.   .    .    .   She's  very  ill,  I  believe,  very  weak." 

"  Addie  says  that  she's  not  so  very  ill." 

"  Listen  1  " 

*'  Could  it  really  be   .    .    .   the  old  man?  " 

"  And,  if  it  were  the  old  man  .  .  .  what  then?" 
said  Adeletje.  "  I  .  .  .1  shall  remain  in  the 
house.  I  shall  die,  here,  I  think,  at  Uncle  and 
Aunt's." 

*'  Oh,  do  hush,  Adeletje !  "  said  Gerdy,  limply, 
nestling  in  her  sister's  arms. 

"  I'm  not  afraid  of  dying." 

"Oh,  Adeletje,  do  hush,  do  hush  I  You  mustn't 
talk  of  dying." 

"  Listen !    I  hear  it  again !  " 

"  But  now  it's  trailing  away." 

"  Like  a  draught  sucking  in  the  air." 

"  Yes,"  said  Adeletje,  "  I  expect  it's  the  old  man." 

"Why  should  it  be  he?" 

"  He  can't  tear  himself  away  from  the  house." 

"  He  was  always  implacable    ..." 

"  To  poor  Aunt  Constance." 

"  The  old  woman  was  different." 

"  Yes,  she  was  different." 

"  No,  it's  the  draught,  it's  only  the  draught. 
.    .    .   And  the  house,  creaking." 

"  It's  nothing." 

"  It's  nothing." 

"  But  perhaps  we  imagine  .  .  .  because  wc 
hear  ..." 


156  DR.  ADRIAAN 

"  We  all  feel  ...  a  sort  of  fear  .  .  .  be- 
cause we  hear." 

"  Mary  saw  something,  I  expect." 

*'  Come,  girls,  let's  go  to  bed." 

"  Do  you  dare  sleep  alone  in  your  room, 
Adeletje?" 

"  Yes,  Gerdy  .  .  .  but  leave  the  door  open  be- 
tween us." 

"  Yes,  that's  nicer." 

"  Good-night  then,  darlings." 

*'  Adeletje  .  .  .  you  won't  think  any  more  oi 
dying,  will  you?"  said  Gerdy,  moist-eyed.  "Per- 
haps I  shall  be  dead  before  you  are." 

"Hush,  darling!  How  can  you  talk  like  that? 
.  .  .  I'm  delicate  and  ugly.  .  .  .  You're  strong, 
you're  pretty." 

"  I  may  be  dead  first,  for  all  that!  "  said  Gerdy, 
sobbing. 

"  Gerdy,  don't  excite  yourself  so,"  said  Marietje. 
"  That's  because  we've  been  talking  about  it.  Now 
you  won't  sleep  all  night." 

"  I  dare  say  I  shall  be  frightened  to-night,"  said 
Gerdy.  "If  so,  I'll  wake  you,  Marietje,  and  creep 
into  bed  beside  you." 

"  Very  well,  do.    .    .    .   And  don't  worry.   ..." 

"  Good-night,  then.   ..." 

"Good-night.  ^    .    ." 

"Good-night.   ..." 

Round  the  house  the  thaw  wept;  and  in  the 
night  the  sinewed  grain  of  the  ice  broke  and  melted 
in  weeping  melancholy,  with  the  added  melancholy 
of  the  west  wind  blowing  up  heavy  clouds,  the  west 
wind  which  came  from  very  far  and  moaned  softly 
along  the  walls  and  over  the  roof,  rattling  the  tight- 
closed  windows  of  the  night.   .    .    . 

Inside  the  house  reigned  the  darkness  of  repose 


DR.  ADRIAAN  157 

and  the  shadow  of  silence;  and  the  inmates  slept. 
Only  Gerdy  could  not  fall  sleep:  she  lay  thinking 
with  wide-open  eyes,  as  she  listened  vaguely  to  the 
wind  blowing  and  the  thaw  pattering,  thinking 
that  she  hated  .  .  .  and  loved  .  .  .  that  she 
hated.  Mathilde  .  .  .  and  loved  .  .  .  him  .  .  ., 
Johan.   ,    .    . 


CHAPTER  XIV 

"  Yes,"  said  Paul,  as  he  followed  Constance  out  of 
her  own  sitting-room,  while  she,  with  her  key- 
basket  over  her  arm,  went  down  the  stairs  with 
Marietje  and  Gerdy,  "  yes,  I'm  not  ashamed  to  con- 
fess it:  I've  come  to  see  how  the  country  suits  me. 
The  Hague  is  becoming  so  dirty  that  I  can't  stand 
it  any  longer.  What  a  dirty  place  a  town  is!  It's 
much  cleaner  in  the  country.  .  .  .  You're  for- 
tunate, you  people.  But  I  daresay  I  should  have 
stayed  on  at  the  Hague — I'm  not  really  a  man  for 
the  country — if  my  landlady  wasn't  getting  so  old, 
if  she  wasn't  always  changing  the  servants,  if  those 
servants  weren't  so  unspeakably  slovenly  and  dirty. 
.  .  .  She  produced  such  specimens  lately  that  I 
gave  her  notice.  .  .  .  I'd  had  those  rooms  four- 
teen years.  .  .  .  It'll  be  a  great  change  for  me. 
.  .  .  But  I  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer.  I  had 
to  see  to  everything  myself;  and  I'm  getting  too  old 
for  that.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  still  do  my  wash-hand-stand 
myself.  .  .  .  But  look  here,  Constance,  when  it 
came  to  making  my  bed — because  the  servant's  hands 
were  dirty  and  my  sheets  one  night  smelt  of  onions 
— ^you  know,  that  was  really  too  much  to  expect. 
I'm  no  longer  a  young  man:  I'm  forty-six.  Yes, 
that's  right,  you  young  baggages,  laugh  at  your  old 
uncle !  I'm  forty-six,  forty-six.  Lord,  what  a  lot 
of  dirt  I've  seen  in  those  years !  ...  As  the  years 
go  by,  filth  heaps  itself  around  you  like  a  mountain: 
there's  no  getting  through  it.  Politics,  people, 
servants,  bedclothes,  everything  you  eat,  everything 
you  touch,  everything  you  do,  say,  think  or  feel: 

158 

I 


DR.  ADRIAAN  159 

it's  a  beastly  business,  just  one  sickening  mass  of 
filth.  .  .  .  The  only  pure,  unsullied  thing  that  I 
have  found  in  the  world  is  music.  Ah,  what  a  pure 
thing  music  is !    ,    .    . " 

"  Paul,  I  must  just  go  down  to  the  store-room 
and  have  a  talk  with  my  cook  about  the  filth  which 
I'm  to  give  you  this  evening,"  said  Constance;  and 
the  girls  laughed. 

"  All  right,  I'll  come  with  you  ...  I  sha'n't  be 
in  the  way.  Ah,  what  a  pure  thing  music  is  I  "  he 
continued,  in  the  store-room,  while  the  cook  opened 
wide  eyes.  "  Look  at  painting,  for  instance,  how 
dirty:  oil-colours,  turpentine,  a  palette,  paint- 
brushes, water,  all  equally  messy.  Sculpture:  clay 
and  damp  cloths;  literature:  what's  more  loath- 
somely dirty  than  ink,  the  oceans  of  ink  which  an 
author  pours  forth?  .  .  .  But  music:  that's  tone, 
that's  purity,  that's  sheer  Platonism.  .  .  .  Oh,  no, 
since  they've  taken  to  building  public  conveniences 
at  the  street-corners  in  the  Hague,  I  can't  go  on 
living  there !  " 

"Paul!"  said  Constance,  warningly;  but  he  was 
too  much  worked  up  to  understand  that  she  was 
rebuking  him.  "  Run  away  now,  with  the  girls  and 
leave  me  with  Keetje.^  Look  at  her,  staring  at  you 
and  not  minding  a  word  I  say.  .  .  .  Keetje,  listen 
to  me,  I  want  to  order  the  dinner;  and  you,  Paul, 
ajo,^beoffI" 

*'  Come  away.  Uncle !  "  said  Marietje,  "  Keetje, 
at  Driebergen,  isn't  accustomed  to  hear  everything 
called  so  dirty." 

"  Keetje's  proud  of  her  kitchen,  aren't  you, 
Keetje?"  said  Gerdy. 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Keetje,  "  I  expect  meneer  doesn't 
mean  all  he  says." 

"  Not  mean  all  I   say ! "   Paul   shouted  at  the 

*  Kate,  Kittie.  *  Malay :  clear  out ! 


i6o  DR.  ADRIAAN 

servant,  who  stood  calmly  with  her  arms  akimbo. 
"  Not  mean  all  I  say !  " 

"  One  can  do  a  lot  with  scrubbing,  sir,  to  keep 
things  nice  and  clean." 

"  And  I  tell  you,"  Paul  blazed  out,  "  that  every- 
thing's dirty,  except  music   ..." 

"  And  except  my  kitchen !  "  said  Keetje,  greatly 
offended.  "  I  don't  know  what  sort  of  servants 
meneer's  had.  But  we're  good  cleaners  here,  aren't 
we,  ma'am?  .  .  .  Yes,  I  know,  old  Mie  ^  is  very 
old  and  mevrouw  only  keeps  her  on  out  of  kindness 
.  .  .  and  we've  got  young  help  besides.  .  .  . 
But  dirty !  "  shaking  her  head  energetically. 
"  There's  no  dirt  here  .  .  .  though  it  is  an  old 
house   .    .    .   and  a  big  family.   ..." 

"  Girls !  Paul !  "  cried  Constance,  in  despair, 
"  Fve  no  time  to  stand  in  my  store-room  arguing 
about  what's  dirty  and  what  not  in  the  world  or 
in  Keetje's  kitchen.  .  .  .  Get  out  of  this!  .  .  . 
And  you,  Keetje,  listen  to  me  and  answer  me." 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Uncle,  come  along  1  "  said  Gerdy.  "  We'll  show 
you  Keetje's  kitchen." 

"  Well,  meneer  can  inspect  that  with  pleasure !  " 
said  Keetje,  by  way  of  a  last  shot. 

The  girls  dragged  Paul  off  to  the  kitchen,  where 
they  were  joined  by  Adeletje  and  even  by  Marietje 
van  Saetzema;  and  they  screamed  with  merriment 
when  Paul  examined  the  pans  one  after  the 
other : 

"  But  look.  Uncle  .  .-  .  they're  shining  like 
silver  and  gold !  " 

"  Well,  we  can  have  our  dinner  out  of  them  to- 
night. .  .  .  Still,  children,  music,  music  is  the  only 
pure  thing  in  the  world !  " 

"  Provided  it's  not  false." 

*  Mary. 


DR.  ADRIAAN  i6i 

*'  Of  course  it  mustn't  be  false.  .  .  .  Have  you 
a  good  piano  here?  " 

"  Yes,  Uncle,  Mathilde  has  hers  upstairs  and 
here's  mine,  in  the  conservatory,"  said  Gerdy. 
"  I'm  the  only  one  who  plays." 

Paul  sat  down  at  the  piano,  struck  a  few  chords: 

"  The  tone  is  fairly  good.  .  .  .  Ah,  music, 
music !   .    .    . " 

And  he  played.  He  played  Wotan's  Farewell, 
followed  by  the  Fire  Magic.  .  .  .  He  played  very 
well,  by  heart:  his  pale,  narrow  features  became 
animated,  his  long  fingers  quivered,  his  eyes  lit  up. 
In  the  conservatory  the  old  mother  listened,  heard 
merely  a  flow  of  soothing  sound.  At  her  feet, 
Klaasje  listened,  playing  with  her  toys.  Mathilde 
came  from  upstairs;  after  her  came  Guy,  deserting 
his  books.  Paul  played,  went  on  playing  ...  he 
had  forgotten  all  about  them.    Suddenly  he  stopped : 

"  You  mustn't  think,"  he  said  abruptly,  "  that  I 
am  an  unconditional  Wagner-worshipper.  His 
music  is  delightful;  his  poetry  is  crude,  childish  and 
thin;  his  philosophy  is  very  faulty  and  horribly  Ger- 
man and  vague.  .  .  .  Proofs?  You  ask  for 
proofs?  .  .  .  Take  the  Rheingold:  did  you  ever 
see  such  gods?  With  no  real  strength,  no  real 
marrow  in  their  coarse  thieves'  souls,  their  burglars' 
souls  full  of  filth.  ...  Is  that  the  beginning  of 
a  world?  No,  a  world  begins  in  a  purer  fashion. 
.  .  .  And  so  childishly  and  crudely:  the  world's 
treasure,  the  gold,  the  pure  gold  guarded  by  three 
dirty  Lorelei,  with  their  hair  full  of  sea-weed, 
who,  the  moment  they  set  eyes  upon  a  dwarf,  start 
giggling  and  making  fun.  .  .  .  Are  those  the  pure 
guardians  of  the  pure  gold?  But  the  music  in  itself, 
the  purity  of  tone.:  oh,  in  that  purity  of  tone  he  is 
a  master  I   ..." 

And  he  played  the  prelude  to  the   Rheingold, 


1 62  DR.  ADRIAAN 

played  it  twice  consecutively.    Suddenly  he  stopped 
once  more  : 

"Oh,  Gerdy,  how  dusty  your  piano  is!  .  .  . 
Does  no  one  ever  wipe  the  keys  ?  .  .  .  Where  can 
I  wash  my  hands?  " 

"  Uncle  dear,  do  go  on  playing!  " 

"And  my  fingers  black  with  dust?  No,  look 
here,  Keetje's  pans  may  shine  like  silver  and  gold, 
but  your  piano  is  a  sounding-board  of  dirt.  Where 
can  I  wash  my  hands?  " 

"  Here,  at  the  tap." 

She  led  him  to  the  hall. 

"  Well,  first  find  me  a  clean  towel." 

"  The  towel  Is  clean,  sir,"  said  Truitje,  who  hap- 
pened to  be  passing. 

"  No,  I  want  a  towel  fresh  from  the  wash,  folded 
in  nice,  clean  folds." 

And  it  was  great  fun:  Marietje  ran  hunting  for 
Constance,  to  get  the  keys  of  the  linen-press. 

"So  you've  come  to  live  here?"  said  Van  der 
Welcke,  who  came  down  while  Paul  was  washing 
his  hands. 

"  Yes,  I  had  a  sudden,  irresistible  impulse  to 
move  to  Driebergen.  I  was  feeling  a  little  lonely 
at  the  Hague,"  he  confessed.  "  I  am  growing  old 
and  lonely.  And  it's  cleaner  in  the  country;  the  air 
is  less  foul,  though  I'm  not  lucky  with  this  thaw. 
The  road  outside  was  one  great  puddle.  But  I 
have  found  two  airy  rooms,  in  a  villa.  .  .  .  It's 
strange,  I  should  never  have  believed  that  I  could 
ever  come  and  live  at  Driebergen  .  .  .  and  in  the 
winter  too !    .    .    . " 

He  inspected  his  hands,  which  were  now  clean: 

"  Imagine,"  he  said,  "  if  there  were  no  water 
left !    I  should  be  dead  next  day !  " 

Paul  really  brightened  up.  He  was  a  great  deal 
at  the  house,  very  soon  got  into  the  habit  of  dining 


DR.  ADRIAAN  163 

there  every  evening  and,  because  he  felt  scruples 
at  always  taking  his  meals  at  Van  der  Welcke's 
expense,  he  made  handsome  presents,  as  a  set-off  for 
his  sponging,  he  said,  so  that  in  the  end  it  cost  him 
more  than  if  he  had  dined  every  day  at  home.  He 
ordered  fine  flowers  and  fruit  from  the  Hague;  on 
Van  der  Welcke's  birthday,  he  gave  him  a  case  of 
champagne;  on  Constance'  birthday,  a  parcel  of 
caravan  tea,  because  he  came  and  had  tea  with  them 
every  afternoon.  In  this  way  he  contributed  gene- 
rously to  the  house-keeping  and  relieved  his  scruples. 
He  brightened  up  considerably,  after  his  recent 
years  of  loneliness,  talked  away  lustily,  broached 
his  philosophies,  played  Wagner;  and  even  Ma- 
thilde  accepted  him  as  a  pleasant  change,  with  a 
touch  of  the  Hague  about  him. 

Constance  would  rebuke  him  at  times  and  say: 

"  Paul,  I  won't  have  you  constantly  ordering  that 
expensive  fruit  for  me  from  the  Hague." 

"  My  dear  Constance,"  he  would  answer,  "  I'm 
saving  the  cost  of  it  on  my  ties ;  for  my  dandyism  is 
gradually  wearing  awav." 

In  the  evening,  in  the  great  sitting-room — while 
the  wind  blew  round  the  house  and  the  dice  fell 
hard  on  the  backgammon-board  and  the  gaudy 
colour  of  the  cards  flickered  in  the  hands  of  the 
bridge-players — Paul's  music  came  as  a  new  sound, 
driving  away  the  grey  melancholy,  tinkling  in  drops 
of  silver  harmony.  He  played  everything  by  heart; 
and  the  only  thing  that  his  attentive  audience 
couldn't  stand  was  his  habit  of  suddenly  breaking 
off  in  the  most  delightful  passages  to  defend  some 
philosophical  thesis  which  no  one  at  that  instant  was 
thinking  of  attacking,  with  which  everyone  agreed 
at  the  time.  Nevertheless,  despite  his  playing  and 
his  new-found  cheerfulness,  he  felt  old,  lonely  and 
aimless.    Whenever  he  had  an  opportunity  of  talk- 


1^4  DR.  ADRIAAN 

ing  quietly  to  Constance  for  a  moment,  without 
having  to  run  after  her  downstairs,  to  the  store- 
room, he  would  say,  sadly: 

"  I  ?  I'm  an  old  bachelor,  an  old  boy.  I'm  a 
typical  old  bachelor." 

"  You  ought  to  get  married,  Paul,"  she  said,  one 
day. 

He  gave  a  violent  start : 

"  Constance,"  he  said,  "  if  ever  you  try  to  lay 
a  trap  for  me,  I  swear  I'll  run  away  and  you  shall 
never  set  eyes  on  me  again!  .  .  ,  Where  should 
I  find  a  wife  who  would  be  as  tidy  as  I?  And  then 
I'm  so  difficult  to  please  that  the  poor  child  would 
have  a  terrible  life  of  it.  .  .  .  Sometimes,  yes, 
sometimes  I  do  cherish  the  illusion  ...  of  mar- 
riage with  a  very  young  girl,  one  whom  I  could  train 
according  to  my  ideas,  my  philosophy,  my  ideas  and 
philosophy  of  purity  ...  of  which  the  loftiest  is 
the  idea  of  purity  in  soul  and  life.   ..." 

"  That's  a  regular  old  bachelor's  idea,  Paul :  get- 
ting married  to  a  very  young  girl,  training  her  in 
your  ideas.  A  fine  woman  of  thirty  or  over:  that's 
better." 

"  As  old  as  that !  "  exclaimed  Paul. 

"  A  woman  of  thirty  is  not  old  for  a  man  of 
forty-six," 

"  No,  Constance,  don't  trouble  your  head.  Mar- 
riage is  a  desperate  affair.  No,  it's  a  good  thing 
that  I  never  got  married.  .  .  .  But  I  do  feel  lonely 
sometimes.  I'm  glad  I  came  to  live  here.  .  .  .  It's 
you  who  are  providing,  the  family-picture  now. 
.  .  .  Poor  Mamma !  She  still  knows  me  quite  well. 
But  she  thinks  that  I  am  still  very,  very  young. 
.  .  .  Yes,  the  family-picture  is  with  you  now,  not 
on  Sunday  evenings,  but  every  day  of  the  week. 
.  .  .  Now  that  I'm  growing  old,  I  feel  myself 
becoming  more  pastoral  than  I  used  to  be.    Do  you 


DR.  ADRIAAN  165 

rewember  how  I  used  to  abuse  the  family  and  deny 
family-affection  and  how  angry  poor  Gerrit  used  to 
get?  Now  I'm  growing  very  idyllic  and  I'm  throw- 
ing back  and  longing  for  the  family  in  the  desert. 
.  ,  .  I'm  glad  that  your  house  has  become  a  centre 
for  the  family,  Constance.  But  for  that,  there 
would  be  nothing  to  keep  us  together.  Oh,  it's  a 
melancholy  thing  to  grow  so  old,  lonely  as  I  am! 
What  have  I  to  live  for?  Nothing.  .  .  .  Well, 
with  you,  I  am  still  at  least  a  sort  of  rich  uncle, 
one  from  whom  the  children  may  have  expectations : 
I  dare  say  I  shall  leave  each  of  my  nephews  and 
nieces  a  trifle.  I  must  have  a  talk  with  my  solicitor 
one  day.  It  won't  be  much  for  them,  but  I'll  leave 
them  enough  to  buy  a  clock,  or  some  other  ornament 
for  their  mantelpiece..  .  .  .  And  your  old  friend 
Brauws  is  back  at  the  Hague,  you  know.  .  .  . 
Oh,  didn't  you  know?  Hasn't  he  written?  He's 
sure  to  soon.  ...  I  met  him  the  other  day:  the 
fellow's  grown  old.  He  always  had  an  old  face: 
wrinkles  are  things  that  need  looking  after;  they 
want  massage.  ...  I  used  to  massage  mine,  but 
I've  given  it  up :  my  personal  vanity  has  gone.  As 
you  see,  I  wear  the  same  tie  always.  I'm  fond  of 
this  tie.  I  have  it  steamed  from  time  to  time:  that 
keeps  it  fresh.  It's  a  nice  tie;  but  I  no  longer  have 
such  a  collection  as  I  used  to.  .  .  .  Yes,  the  family 
no  longer  cling  together  at  the  Hagije.  Karel  and 
Cateau  still  do  nothing  but  eat  good  dinners  by 
themselves.  For  years  and  years  they  have  done 
nothing  but  eat  good  meals  together.  Lord,  Lord, 
what  a  disgusting  pair  to  find  their  pleasure  in  that! 
.  .  .  Saetzema  and  Adolphine:  that's  a  sad  case; 
you  people  have  been  very  kind  to  Marietje.  .  .  . 
Otto  and  Frances  have  a  heap  of  children  now  and 
that  good  Louise  looks  after  them,  while  Frances 
makes  a  scene  one  day  and  embraces  her  the  next 


i66  DR.  ADRIAAN 

with  a  great  display  of  emotion  and  loads  of  tears. 
And  that  has  lasted  for  years  too.  .  .  .  Yes,  the 
years  pass.  I  simply  couldn't  bear  it  any  longer, 
especially  with  those  sluts  of  servants  whom  my 
landlady  started  engaging  lately.  I  yearned  for 
cleanliness  and  .  .  .  for  my  family.  It's  a  sign 
that  I'm  growing  very  old,  Constance.  My  dotage 
is  always  marked  by  that  idyllic  longing.  .  .  . 
That's  why  I  take  so  much  pleasure  in  immersing 
myself  amid  you  all  in  family-affection.  It's  a  great 
thing  that  none  of  you  quarrel;  even  you  and 
your  husband  don't  quarrel  any  more.  It's  become 
the  golden  age." 


CHAPTER  XV 

And  the  hard-braced  north-east  winds,  which  had 
brought  the  nipping  frost  with  them,  came  no  more; 
they  had  passed;  and  it  was  no  longer  the  strong, 
boisterous  winds,  but  the  angry  winds,  the  winds 
that  brought  with  them  the  clouds  of  grey  melan- 
choly, in  eternal  steady-blowing  sadness,  as  though 
in  the  west,  yonder,  there  were  a  dark  realm  of 
mysterious  sorrow,  whence  blew  huge  howling 
cohorts  of  gigantic  woes,  titanic  griefs,  overshadow- 
ing the  small  country  and  the  small  people.  The  sky 
and  the  clouds  now  seemed  bigger  and  mightier  than 
the  small  country  and  the  small  people ;  the  sky  now 
seemed  to  be  the  universe;  and  houses,  roads,  trees 
and  people,  horizons  of  woods  and  moors,  lastly, 
human  souls  all  seemed  to  shrink  under  the  great 
woes  that  drowned  the  small  country  and  the  small 
people  from  horizon  to  horizon.  Curtains  of 
streaming  water  cloaked  the  vistas  and  a  damp  fog 
blurred  the  distant  wavering  line  of  trees;  a  rainy 
mist  washed  out  the  almost  spectral  gestures,  the 
silent,  despairing  movements  of  the  windmill-sails; 
and  the  low-lying  world,  feeble,  small,  sombre  and 
bowed  down,  endured  the  crushing,  oppressive  force 
of  rain  and  wind  lasting  night  and  day  and  all  day 
long. 

Constance  and  Brauws  were  sitting  once  more  in 
her  own  sitting-room,  which  was  a  replica  of  the 
little  boudoir  in  the  Kerkhoflaan  at  the  Hague. 
Along  the  curving  folds  of  the  curtains,  through  the 
grey,   clouded  panes,   they  watched  the  grey  rain 

167 


i68  DR.  ADRIAAN 

falling,  now  in  vertical  streaks,  now  aslant,  driven 
by  the  raging  wind. 

"  I  so  well  remember  this  weather,"  he  said,  "  in 
the  old  days,  when  I  used  to  sit  chatting  with  you 
at  the  Hague,  in  your  room  which  was  so  like  this 
room." 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

"  I  would  come  late  in  the  afternoon,  find  you 
sitting  in  the  dark  and  scold  you  because  you  had 
not  been  out;  and  we  used  to  talk  about  all  sorts 
of  things.   ..." 

*'  It's  a  long  time  ago." 

"  The  years  fly  past.  Do  you  remember,  we  used 
to  fight  a  little,  both  of  us,  against  the  years  that 
were  overtaking  us,  against  the  years  that  would 
make  us  old?  " 

She  laughed: 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  We  no  longer  fight  against 
them  now.  We  are  old  now.  We  have  grown 
old." 

"  We  are  growing  old.  And  yet  what  an  amount 
of  youth  a  human  being  possesses!  As  we  grow 
older,  we  always  think,  '  Now  we  are  growing  old.' 
And,  when  we  are  older  than  when  we  thought  that, 
we  feel  .  .  .  that  we  have  always  remained  the 
same  as  we  were  from  a  child." 

"  Yes   ...   a  person  doesn't  change." 

"  Only  all  his  joys  and  all  his  sorrows  change 
and  become  blurred;  but  we  ourselves  do  not." 

"  No,  we  don't  change.  Then  why  should  there 
be  joy  and  sorrow  .  .  .when,  after  many  years, 
we  have  remained  the  same  as  we  were  from  child- 
hood?" 

"  Because  we  remain  the  same  .  .  .  and  yet  do 
not  remain  the  same." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  smiling.  "  I  understand  what 
you  mean.     We  remain  the  same  from  childhood 


DR.  ADRIAAN  169 

.  .  .  and  yet  .  .  .  yet  we  change.  It  is  like  a 
game  of  riddles.  I  .  .  .  I  am  the  same  .  .  . 
and  I  am  changed." 

"  I  too.  My  soul  still  recognizes  in  itself  my 
former  child's  soul  .  ,  .  and  yet  .  .  .  yet  I  am 
changed.  .  .  .  Tell  me:  I  believe  things  are  run- 
ning smbothly  with  you.   ..." 

"  Sometimes." 

"Not  always?" 

*'  No." 

*'  I  am  so  glad  to  see  .  .  .  that  things  are  going 
well  as  between  you  and  Henri." 

"  We  are  growing  so  old.  •  .  Everything  gets 
blunted." 

"  No,  it's  not  only  that." 

"  No,  not  only." 

"You  have  grown  used  to  each  other  ..." 

"  Without  talking  about  it." 

"  You  set  store  by  each  other  by  now.   .    .  ,." 

"  Perhaps.   .    .    .   Gradually.    ..." 

"  Hans  is  a  good  sort." 

"  Yes,  he's  just  simply  that." 

"  And  you  appreciate  this  now." 

"I  think  I  do." 

"  You  both  have  full  lives." 

"  Yes.    Who  would  ever  have  thought  it?  " 

"  You  have  so  much  to  make  you  happy:  Addie 
always  with  you    ..." 

"My  poor  boy!  " 

"  Why  do  you  say  that?  " 

"  I  am  frightened   ..." 

"What  of?" 

"  I  don't  know.  On  days  like  the  last  few  days, 
I  am  sensitive  to  every  sort  of  fear,  I  always  have 
been." 

"  Have  the  fears  been  justified?  " 

"  Sometimes." 


lyo  DR.  ADRIAAN 

"  What  are  you  afraid  of  ?  " 

"  I  have  sad  thoughts." 

"  That  is  sheer  melancholy." 

"  A  melancholy  which  is  a  presentiment  ,.i  i.j  w 
on  days  like  these   ..." 

"  And  everything  is  well." 

"  Only  the  material  things." 

*'  Be  happy  in  that  your  life  is  so  richly 
filled,  both  yours  and  Hans'.  .  .  .  It's  a  life 
of  the  richest  security  .  .  .  with  all  that  you 
do." 

"  Vv^ith  all  that  we  do  ?    We  do  nothing  I  " 

"  You  do  a  great  deal  .  .  .  for  people  who  are 
small !  "  he  smiled. 

"  For  small  souls!   .    .    .   Do  we  do  enough? " 

"  You  do  a  great  deal." 

She  shook  her  head : 

"  I  don't.    .    .    .    Hans  does:  he  is  good." 

"  Just  simply  good.  .  .  .  Tell  me,  is  it  merely 
because  of  the  weather  that  things  don't  seem  to  run 
smoothly  ?  " 

"  No,  material  things  aren't  everything." 

"  Is  it  because  of  Addie?  " 

"  Perhaps.  I  can't  say.  I  feel  an  oppression, 
here."  She  put  both  her  hands  to  her  heart.  "  It's 
always  liable  to  come,  a  day  ..." 

"  Yes." 

"  A  day  of  sorrow,  illness,  wretchedness  .  .  ., 
of  misfortune   ...   of  disaster." 

"  Why  should  you  think  that?  " 

"  I  often  think  it :  now  there's  a  misfortune 
coming,  a  disaster.  ...  I  sit  and  wait  for  it. 
.  .  .  Oh,  I've  been  waiting  for  it  for  months! 
....  The  children  look  at  me,  ask  me  what's  the 
matter,  whether  anything  has  happened  .  .  .  with 
Mathilde.  ,  .  .  No,  nothing  ever  happens.  .  .  . 
There  is  no  sympathy  between  us   .    .    .   but  I,  I  am 


DR.  ADRIAAN  171 

calm  and  I  wish  her  every  good  ,  .  .  my  son's 
wife.   ..." 

"  You  must  get  over  that  oppression." 

"  It  can't  be  argued  away." 

*'  You  must  be  happy.  I  have  been  here  for  some 
days  now.     I  see  nothing  but  love  all  around  you." 

**  From  her  side?  " 

*'  Well,  perhaps  not  from  hers." 

"  She  always  remains  a  stranger." 

"  Then  win  her  to  you." 

"  It's  very  difficult,  when  there  is  no  sym- 
pathy." 

"  But,  apart  from  that,  there  is  nothing  but  love 
around  you.  Really,  you  are  wrapped  about  with 
silent  happiness." 

She  shook  her  head : 

"  They  are  fond  of  me  .  .  .  but  there  are 
things  slumbering.   ..." 

*'  There  are  always  slumbering  things.  Happi- 
ness without  shadow  doesn't  exist.  And  one  even 
doubts  whether  it  ought  to." 

"  No,  perhaps  not  .  .  .  for  later,  for  later. 
But  .  .  .  there  are  things  that  slumber,  silent,  sor- 
rowful things." 

"  I  see  you  can't  overcome  it." 

"  No.    I  am  glad  to  see  you  again." 

"  After  so  many  years.  And  I  too  am  glad  to 
see  that  things  are  going  so  well  with  you  .  .  . 
even  though  there  are  sorrowful  things  that  slum- 
ber." 

*'  There  are  many  good  things." 

"  There  is  much  love  .  .  .  and  much  living  for 
others." 

She  laughed  softly: 

"So  simply   .    .    .   with  no  great  effort!  " 

"  When  we  are  not  great  .  .  .  why  should  we 
act  as  though  we  were?    We  are  small;  and  we  act 


172  DR.  ADRIAAN 

accordingly.  If  we  do  good  in  a  small  way  ,.,  tu  ui 
isn't  that  a  beginning?  " 

"  A  striving   ..." 

"  For  later." 

"  Yes,  for  later." 

*'  I,  I  can't  even  say  .  .  .  that  I  am  doing 
good  in  a  small  way." 

"  Tell  me  about  yourself." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  tell.  Thinking,  living, 
seeking  .  .  .  always  seeking.  .  .  .  There  has 
been  nothing  besides." 

"  Then  do  as  we  do,"  she  laughed,  softly.  "  Do 
good  in  a  small  way  ...  as  you  say  that  we 
do." 

"  I  shall  try.  .  .  .  But  I  am  disheartened.  I 
admire  you  and  I  envy  you." 

"I  .  .  .  I  am  disheartened.  I  am  sometimes 
quite  dejected.  I  should  like  to  live  quietly,  with  a 
heap  of  books  around  me.  I  .  .  .  I'm  giving  it 
up." 

"The  struggle?" 

"  Yes,  the  struggle  to  seek  and  find.  Little  by 
little,  it  has  conquered  me.  Can  you  understand 
me?    You   .    .    .   you  have  conquered  it." 

"  What  have  I  conquered?  " 

"  You  understand." 

"  You  rank  that  conquest  too  high.  .  .  .  And 
you,  why  are  you  conquered?  " 

"  Because  .  .  .  because  I  have  never  achieved 
anything.  ...  I  may  sometimes  have  found,  but 
never,  never  achieved.  .  .  - .  And  now  I  want  to 
rest  .  .  .  with  a  heap  of  books  around  me  .  .  . 
and,  if  I  can,  follow  your  example  .  .  .  and  do 
good  in  a  small  way." 

"  I  will  help  you,"  she  said,  jesting,  very  sadly. 

They  were  silent;  and  between  her  and  him  the 
room  was  full  of  bygone  things.    The  furniture  was 


DR.  ADRIAAN  173 

the  same,  certain  lines  and  tones  were  the  same  as 
years  ago.  .  .  .  Out  of  doors,  the  unsparing  night 
of  the  clattering  rain  and  raging  wind  was  the  same 
as  years  ago.  Life  went  on  weaving  its  long  woof 
of  years,  like  so  many  grey  shrouds.  They  both 
smiled  at  it;  but  their  hearts  were  very  sad. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

And  the  melancholy  of  bygone  things  seemed  to 
swell  on  the  loud  moaning  of  the  wind  during  the 
following  days,  when  the  rain  poured  down;  the 
house  these  days  seemed  full  of  the  melancholy  of 
bygone  things.  They  were  days  of  shadow  and 
half-Hght  reflected  around  the  old,  doting  woman 
in  the  conservatory;  Adeline,  the  silent,  mournful 
mother;  EmiHe,  a  young  woman,  but  broken  .  .  . 
like  all  the  greyness  exuding  from  human  souls  that 
are  always  living  in  the  past  and  in  the  melancholy 
of  that  past;  and  now  that  Brauws  also  saw  it  as 
a  thing  of  shadows  and  twilight  round  Alex — be- 
cause the  boy  could  never  forget  the  horror  of  his 
father's  death — he  also  understood  within  himself 
that  bygone  things  are  never  to  be  cast  off  and  that 
they  perhaps  hang  closer  in  clouds  of  melancholy, 
around  people  under  grey  skies — the  small  people 
under  the  great  skies — than  in  bright  countries  of 
mountains  and  sunshine  and  blue  sky.  And  that 
there  were  sorrowful  things  of  the  soul  that  slum- 
bered: did  he  not  see  it  in  Addie's  knitted  brows, 
in  ailing  Marietje's  dreamy  stare,  in  Mathilde's 
glances  brooding  with  envy  and  secret  bitterness  and 
malice?  Did  he  not  see  it  in  the  sudden  melancholy 
moods  of  Gerdy,  usually  so  cheerful?  And  did  he 
not  understand  that  in  between  their  young  lives 
there  was  weaving  a  woof  of  feelings  that  were 
most  human  but  exceedingly  intense,  perhaps  so  in- 
tense because  the  feelings  of  small  souls  under  big 

174 


DR.  ADRIAAN  175 

skies  can  be  deeply  sorrowful  between  the  brown 
walls  of  a  house,  between  the  dark  curtains  of  a 
room,  which  the  grey  daylight  enters  as  a  tarnish 
of  pain,  mingling  its  tarnish  with  the  reflexion  which 
lingers  from  former  years  in  dull  mirrors,  as  though 
all  feeling  and  all  life  were  quiveringly  mirrored 
in  the  atmosphere  amid  which  life  has  lived  and 
palpitated? 

Brauws  was  now  living  at  Zeist  and  he  had  col- 
lected his  heap  of  books  around  him  and  lived  there 
quietly,  conquered,  as  he  said.  But  he  was  with 
them  a  great  deal  and  was  hardly  surprised  when, 
one  morning,  intending  to  come  for  lunch,  he  heard 
unknown  children's  voices  in  the  hall,  saw  in  the 
hall  a  young  woman  whom  he  did  not  know  at  first, 
heard  her  say  in  a  very  soft  voice  of  melancholy, 
with  a  sound  in  it  like  a  little  cracked  bell  of  silvery 
laughter : 

"  Don't  you  recognize  me,  Mr.  Brauws?  " 

She  put  out  her  hand  to  him : 

*'  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  really  don't  know  me? 
Aunt  Constance,  Mr.  Brauws  doesn't  know  me;  and 
yet  we  used  to  have  so  many  disputes,  in  the  old 
days !  " 

"  Freule  .  .  .  Freule  van  Naghel  .  .  .  Freule 
Marianne !  "  Brauws  stammered. 

'*  Mrs.  van  Vreeswijk,"  said  Marianne,  correcting 
him,  gently.     "  And  here  are  my  children." 

And  she  showed  him  a  little  girl  of  eight  and 
two  boys  of  seven  and  six;  and  he  was  hardly  sur- 
prised, but  he  felt  the  melancholy  of  the  past  rising 
in  the  big  house  when  Van  der  Welcke  came  down 
the  stairs  and  said: 

"  Ah,  Marianne !  Is  that  you  and  the  child- 
ren?" 

*'  Yes,  Uncle,  we  have  been  to  Utrecht  to  look  up 
Uncle  and  Aunt  van  Vreeswijk:  they  are  so  fond  of 


176  DR.  ADRIAAN 

the  children.  .  .  .  Charles  may  come  on  this  after- 
noon  .    .    .   but  he  wasn't  quite  sure." 

And,  turning  to  Brauws,  she  continued,  very, 
easily: 

"  We  are  living  near  Arnhem.  Won't  you  come 
and  see  us  in  the  summer?  Vreeswijk  would  be  very 
glad,  I  know." 

She  spoke  quite  easily  and  it  was  all  very  prosaic 
and  ordinary  when  they  all  sat  down  round  the  big 
table  in  the  diping-room  and  Marianne  quietly 
chatted  on : 

"  And  Marietje — Lord,  what  a  lot  of  Marietjes 
we  have  in  the  family — our  Marietje  is  soon  coming 
to  introduce  her  young  soldier  to  you." 

"Is  it  settled  then?"  asked  Constance.  *' I 
thought  Uncle  van  Naghel  didn't  approve." 

"  He's  given  in,"  said  Marianne,  shrugging  her 
shoulders.  "  But  the  dear  boy  hasn't  a  cent;  and 
we  none  of  us  know  how  they're  going  to  live  on 
his  subaltern's  pay.  And  Marietje  who  always  used 
to  swear  that  she  would  only  marry  a  rich  man! 
.  .  .  And  we  have  good  news  from  India :  Karel 
is  really  doing  well.   ..." 

How  prosaic  life  was!  How  prosaically  it  rolled 
along  its  steady  drab  course,  thought  Brauws, 
silently  to  himself,  as  he  looked  on  while  Guy  carved 
the  beef  in  straight,  even  slices.  .  .  .  And,  pro- 
saically though  it  rolled,  what  a  very  different  life 
it  always  became  from  what  any  man  imagined  that 
his  life  would  be,  from  the  future  which  he  had 
pictured,  from  the  illusion^  high  or  small,  which 
he  had  gilded  for  himself,  with  his  pettily  human 
fancy  ever  gilding  the  future  according  to  its  pettily 
human  yearning  after  illusions.  .  .  .  Oh,  if  the 
illusion  had  come  about  which,  in  the  later  life 
reborn  out  of  themselves,  he  and  Constance  had 
conceived,  without  a  word  to  each  other,  in  a  single, 


DR.  ADRIAAN  177 

brightly  glittering  moment,  oh,  if  Henri's  illusion 
had  come  about  and  that  of  this  young  woman,  now 
the  little  mother  of  three  children,  would  it  all  have 
been  better  than  it  now  was?  Who  could  tell? 
Who  could  tell?  .  .  .  And,  though  the  dreamy 
reflecting  upon  all  this  brought  back  all  the  melan- 
choly of  the  past,  yet  this  melancholy  contained  an 
assurance  that  life,  as  it  went  on,  knew  everything 
better  than  the  people  who  pictured  the  future  to 
themselves.  .  .  .  There  they  all  were,  sitting  so 
simply  round  the  big  table  at  the  simple  meal  for 
which  Constance  apologized,  saying  that  Marianne 
had  taken  her  unawares;  and  Brauws  was  but  mildly 
astonished  to  find  that  Marianne  was  married  to 
Van  Vreeswijk:  he  had  not  heard  of  it  and  it  was 
a  surprise  to  him  to  see  her  suddenly  surrounded 
by  children;  he  was  but  mildly  astonished  to  see  her 
and  Hans  talking  together  so  simply,  as  uncle  and 
niece,  as  though  there  had  never  been  a  shred  of 
tenderness  between  them;  he  was  but  mildly  aston- 
ished when  he  himself  talked  to  Constance  so  simply, 
while  he  felt  depressed  about  Addie,  whose  eyes 
looked  so  dark  and  sombre.  When  Addie  was  still 
a  child,  he  had  conceived  an  enthusiasm  for  him, 
perceiving  in  him  a  certain  future  which  he  himself 
would  never  achieve.  And  he  had  also  suffered, 
because  he  felt  Addie's  jealousy  for  his  father's 
sake,  when  he,  Brauws,  used  to  sit  for  hours  with 
his  mother  in  the  half-dark  room,  whispering  inti- 
mate words  so  quickly  understood,  so  sympathetically 
felt.   .    .    . 

Now  the  years  had  passed;  sorrow  had  faded 
away  and  sorrow  was  being  born  again  perhaps,  for 
life  cannot  exist  without  sorrow,  laid  up  as  an 
inheritance  for  one  and  all;  and  yet  sorrow  was  so 
very  little  and  became  so  small  in  the  measureless 
life  entire.     There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  smile, 


178  DR.  ADRIAAN 

later,  much  later,  at  all  the  disappointment, 
even  that  of  seeking  and  not  finding  and  not 
achieving.   .    .    . 

It  was  very  noisy  because  of  the  children:  the 
three  little  Vreeswijks  after  lunch  playing  with 
Jetje  and  Constant;  and,  as  the  girls  were  staying 
with  the  children,  Constance,  with  her  arm  round 
Marianne's  waist,  went  upstairs  to  her  own  room: 

"  Let's  sit  here  quietly  for  a  bit,"  she  said. 

Marianne  smiled: 

"  You've  always  got  your  hands  full.  Auntie." 

*'  I  don't  know  why,  dear.  .  .  .  We  live  so 
quietly  here,  at  Driebergen  .  .  .  and  yet  .  .  . 
yet  my  hands  are  always  full.  I  do  sometimes  crave 
to  be  quite  alone.  .  .  .  But  the  craving  never  lasts 
long  .  .  .  and  it  seems  impossible.  .  .  .  How- 
ever, it's  all  right  as  it  is.    .    .    . " 

"  What  awful  weather,  Auntie !  .  .  .  I  remem- 
ber how  often  it  used  to  rain  like  this  when  I  came 
to  see  you  in  the  Kerkhoflaan.  .  .  .  How  long  ago 
it  is,  years  and  years  ago!  .  .  .  Here,  among  all 
your  old  knicknacks  it  looks  to  me  suddenly  and 
strangely  as  though  everything  had  remained  the 
same  .  .  .  and  yet  changed.  Auntie  .  .  . 
Auntie   .    .    ." 

Obeying  a  sudden  impulse,  she  dropped  on  her 
knees  beside  Constance  and  seized  her  hand: 

"  Do  you  remember,  do  you  remember?  .  .  . 
I  used  to  come  and  see  you  in  this  sort  of  rain  and 
stay  on  .  .  .  and  I  could  not  bear  that  you  should 
be  unhappy  with  Uncle.  ...  .  And,  you  know,  I 
talked  about  it  ...  I  said  tactless  things  ...  I 
asked  you  to  try  and  be  happy  with  Uncle  .  .  . 
Do  you  remember,  do  you  remember?  .  .  .  And 
now,  Auntie,  it  appears  to  me  as  if  a  great  deal  has 
been  changed,  though  much  has  remained  the  same, 
and  as  if  things  had  become  much  better  .    .    .  be- 


DR.  ADRIAAN  179 

tween  you  and  Uncle   .    .    .   between  you  and  Uncle 
Henri.    ..." 

"  Dear,  we  have  grown  older;  and  everything  has 
become  more  mellow;  and  Uncle  .  .  .  Uncle  is 
very  good." 

"  Yes,  he  is  good." 

"  He  is  just  simply  good." 

"  You  see  that  now." 

"  Yes,  I  see  it  now,  I  admit  it." 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad !  .  .  .  Yes,  we  have  grown 
old." 

"  Not  you." 

"  Yes,  I  too,"  she  said,  laughing  softly.  "  I  am 
young,  but  I  am  older  than  my  years.  ,  .  .  And, 
Auntie,  tell  me,  do  you  remember  before  we  went 
to  Baern,  you  came  and  called  one  day — we  were 
just  busy  moving — and  you  sent  for  me  and  asked 
me  .  .  .  you  told  me  .  .  .  that  Charles  was 
fond  of  me  ,  .  .  and  I  refused  him  ...  do 
you  remember,  do  you  remember?  " 

"  I  should  think  I  did  remember,  darling!  .  .  . 
And  now  you've  got  him  after  all;  and  it's  all  for 
the  best,  isn't  it?" 

"  Yes,  Auntie,  we  get  on  very  well  indeed  .  .  .. 
and  I  have  my  children.  .  .  .  Do  you  remember, 
do  you  remember  how  you  came  to  Baern  one  day? 
I  was  very  low-spirited;  and  you  took  me  in  your 
arms  and  pressed  me  to  you  and  told  me  ...  a 
fairy-tale,  about  the  small  souls  .  .  .  which  passed 
through  vanity  ...  to  ecstasy.  Do  you  remem- 
ber? .  .  .  And,  when  the  ecstasy  died  out  .  .  . 
then  the  little  soul  found  a  grain  ...  a  mere 
grain  .  .  .  which  was  big  enough,  however,  be- 
cause the  soul  Itself  was  so  small.  Do  you  remem- 
ber, Auntie,  do  you  remember?  " 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  remember.  ...  It  was  just  a 
few  tiny  words  to  console  and  cheer  you  a  little  .   .   . 


i8o  DR.  ADRIAAN 

And  now  the  little  soul  has  found  the  grain,  hasn't 
it?" 

"  I  think  so,  Auntie  .  .  .  but  under  .  .  . 
under  all  these  small,  everyday  things  ...  a  great 
deal  of  melancholy  remains.  .  .  .  Perhaps  it's 
wrong;  perhaps  it  oughtn't  to  be  so.    ..." 

"  But,  if  there  are  things  in  one's  past,  if  we 
have  lived  before,  dear,  then  there  is  always  a 
certain  melancholy  and  we  all  have  our  share  of  it 
.  .  .  just  because  we  feel  deeply,  very  deeply  per- 
haps, under  our  dark  skies  .  .  .  and  because  our 
feeling  always  remains  .  .  .  and  our  melancholy 
too.   ..." 

"  Perhaps  so.  Auntie.  .  .  .  And  so  it  goes  on 
and  we  drift  on.  .  .  .  You  see,  there  are  good 
things  in  life.  .  .  .  Tell  me,  doesn't  it  occur  to 
you  that  you  have  found   ..." 

"What?" 

"  What  you  came  to  look  for,  years  ago,  in  Hol- 
land .  .  .  after  you  had  been  abroad  so  long. 
Auntie,  and  felt  so  home-sick  for  your  own  country 
and  for  warmth  .  .  .  the  warmth  of  family- 
affection.  .  .  .  Tell  me.  Auntie,  doesn't  it  occur 
to  you  that  you  have  found  it  now:  the  country,  our 
grey,  dark  country  .  .  .  and  everything  that  you 
used  to  long  for?  .  .  .  Are  we  not  all  round  you: 
even  we,  though  we  live  some  way  off?  .  .  .  Are 
we  not  all,  nearly  all  of  us  around  you?  " 

"  Yes,  dear." 

"  And  are  you  happy  now?  " 

"Yes,  dear."      .      .    "  . 

"  I  hear  something  in  your  voice  that  contradicts 
your  words.    Tell  me,  what  is  it?  " 

"  I'm  frightened   .    .    .   I'm  frightened." 

"  And  you  have  found  so  much,  you  have  found 
everything!  What  .  .  .  what  are  you  frightened 
of?" 


DR.  ADRIAAN  i'8i 

"  Fm  frightened   .    .    .   I  feel  so  anxious.   .    .    .'* 

"What  about?" 

"  About  things   .    .    .   that  may  happen." 

"Where?" 

"  In  our  house." 

"  What  can  happen?  " 

"Things,  sad  things" 

"  Auntie,  this  is  nonsense !  " 

"  I  can't  help  it,  dear.  .  .  .  I'm  frightened 
.    .    .   I'm  frightened.   ..." 

"  Tell  me,  Auntie,  you  don't  like  the  house,  do 
you?" 

"  It's  not  that." 

"  But  the  house  oppresses  you." 

"  No,  it's  not  that,  child.  .  .  .  Uncle  and  Addie 
like  the  house.  .  .  .  And  I'm  getting  used  to 
it.   ..." 

"  Tell  me.  Auntie :  they  say   ..." 

"What?" 

"That  the  house  is    .    .    ." 

She  looked  at  Constance  meaningly. 

"  Darling,  darling,  it's  not  that.  .  .  .  It's  an 
old  house.   .    .    .   We  never  talk  of  that.   ..." 

"  But  it  may  be  just  that  that  depresses  you." 

"  It  did  at  first  .  .  .  but  I'm  getting  used  to 
it.  .  .  .  Addie  is  so  very  calm  and  communicates 
all  his  calmness  to  us.  .  .  .  What  appears  inex- 
plicable ...  is  perhaps  quite  simple.  .  .  .  But 
that's  not  it.  .  .  .  I'm  frightened  .  .  .  fright- 
ened of  .    .    ." 

"Of  what?" 

"  Of  what  I  fear  .    .    .  will  happen." 

"  And  what  do  you  fear?  " 

"  Things  that  I  can't  put  into  words  .  .  .  some 
great  sorrow." 

"Why,  Auntie?  .    .    .   Why  should  it  happen? 


i82  DR.  ADRIAAN 

.  .  .  And  then,  if  sorrow  comes,  won't  you  be 
strong?  " 

Constance  suddenly  gave  a  sob : 

"I  shall  be  weak!" 

"  Auntie,  Auntie,  why  are  you  so  overwrought?  " 

"I  shall  be  weak!" 

"  No,  Auntie,  you  won't.  And  you  mustn't  be 
so  frightened.  There  is  nothing  but  love  all  around 
you  .  .  .  and  they  will  all  of  them,  all  of  them 
help  you." 

"  I  am  frightened  .  .  .  and  I  shall  be  very 
weak.   ..." 

"  No,  Auntie.  .  .  .  Oh,  Auntie,  do  stop  crying! 
.  .  .  What  are  you  afraid  of?  And  what  could 
happen  now?   .    .    .   For  whom  are  you  afraid?  " 

"  For  Addie  .  .  .  for  my  boy  .  .  .  for  Ma- 
thilde." 

"But  why.  Auntie,  why?  .  .  .  Oh,  don't  be  so 
frightened!  .  .  .  Everything's  all  right  between 
them  .  .  .  and  Addie  .  .  .  Addie  is  so  calm,  so 
practical,  so  simple  in  his  way  of  acting  and 
thinking.   .    .    ." 

"  Perhaps.   .    .    .   Oh,  if  he  is  only  strong!  " 

"  Isn't  he  always?" 

"  Perhaps  he  is.  .  .  .  Oh,  my  dear  child,  I  am 
so  frightened!   ..." 

"  Hush,  Auntie,  hush !  .  .  .  Don't  cry  any  more. 
.  .  .  Lie  still,  now;  lie  still  in  my  arms.  .  .  . 
Even  if  we  have  sorrow  to  go  through,  even  if  we 
have  sad  things  to  experience,  even  then  you  should 
remember  that  everything  .  .  .  that  everything 
comes  right  again  ...  in  the  end.  .  .  .  If  we 
all  have  our  share,  why  shouldn't  they  have  theirs? 
.  .  .  And  perhaps — who  knows? — your  anxiety  is 
exaggerated,  Auntie  .  .  .  because  you  have  been  a 
little  overwrought   .    .    .   lately." 

"  It  may  be  that." 


DR.  ADRIAAN  183 

"  Is  it  all  .  .  .a  little  too  much  for  you  some- 
times?" 

"  I  am  so  seldom  alone." 

"  I  dare  say  you  i^eel  tired  sometimes." 

"  It  may  be  that." 

"  You  mustn't  think  about  it  any  more.  .  .  ., 
Tell  me,  Auntie:  Gerdy  isn't  very  well.   ..." 

"  What  makes  you  say  that?  " 

"  I  thought  she  looked  pale  .  ,  .  and  rather 
sad." 

Constance  passed  her  hand  over  her  forehead : 

"  Oh,  Marianne,"  she  said,  "  I  wish  that  I  could 
talk  it  all  away,  think  it  all  away!  .  .  .  But  I 
can't.  .  .  .  Fm  frightened,  I  keep  on  being 
frightened.   ..." 

And  she  sobbed  gently  on  Marianne's  shoulder, 
while  the  younger  woman  knelt  beside  her. 

The  rain  fell  in  vertical  streaks.  The  carriage 
took  Marianne  and  her  children  to  the  station 
through  a  deluge. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

Since  that  first  time,  Mathilde  was  pricked  with 
continual  jealousy;  and  in  the  mornings,  when  Addie 
went  upstairs  to  Marietje  van  Saetzema's  room,  she 
always  followed  him  and  stole  into  the  wardrobe- 
closet  next  door,  always  with  her  keys  in  her  hand, 
so  that,  if  she  happened  to  be  caught,  she  might 
appear  to  be  looking  for  some  article  of  dress  in  one 
of  the  presses.  She  listened  at  the  partition  and 
understood  what  they  were  saying  sometimes  but 
not  always,  because  Marietje  spoke  very  low  and 
Mathilde  could  not  always  hear  what  she  answered. 
But,  as  her  eyes  glanced  mechanically  along  the  big 
flowers  that  formed  the  pattern  of  the  wall-paper, 
she  suddenly  noticed  a  broad  crevice,  where  the 
wood  had  split  and  the  paper  cracked  and  torn;  and, 
with  her  hearf  leaping  to  her  throat,  she  peeped 
and  peeped.  .  .  .  She  had  to  squeeze  between  two 
cupboards,  she  banged  her  head  against  the  partition 
and  was  terrified  lest  they  had  heard;  but  they 
heard  nothing  or  else  the  noise  did  not  strike  them, 
for  the  sound  of  their  voices  went  on.  .  .  .  • 
Mathilde  now  put  her  eye  to  the  crevice  and  was 
able,  though  with  difficulty,  to  see  into  the  room, 
saw  Marietje  sitting  with  -Addie  sitting  beside  her, 
saw  her  hand  resting  in  his : 

"  Why  does  he  hold  her  hand  so  long? "  she 
thought.    "  Need  he  feel  her  pulse  as  long  as  that?  " 

But  he  did  not  let  go  of  Marietje's  hand;  and 
Mathilde  became  impatient,  also  because  she  could 
not  catch  what  they  were  saying: 

184 


DR.  ADRIAAN  185 

"  How  softly  they  are  talking  and  how  confi- 
dential it  all  is !  "  she  thought. 

And,  when  Marietje  lifted  her  head  a  little,  as 
with  the  movement  of  a  lily  on  its  slender  stem, 
Mathilde  saw  her  smiling,  saw  her  eyes  gleaming 
softly,  saw  the  words  taking  birth  as  it  were  smiling 
on  her  lips;  and  it  seemed  as  though  those  words 
added  a  touch  of  colour  to  the  pale  lips  and  a  blush 
to  the  pale  cheeks.    .    .    . 

*'  How  very  much  better  she  looks  than  when 
she  came !  "  thought  Mathilde,  though  she  wanted 
to  call  out  to  Addie  and  tell  him  to  let  go  Marietje's 
hand.  "  They  are  about  the  same  age,"  she 
thought.    "  I  am  much  younger  than  she  is." 

And  yet  Marietje,  though  twenty-six,  had  a  cer- 
tain youthfulness,  as  of  a  very  young  girl;  and 
Mathilde  could  not  get  rid  of  the  thought: 

"  They  are — very  nearly — the  same  age.  It's 
ridiculous:  a  young  doctor  like  Addie  .  .  .  with 
a  young  woman,  a  young  girl  like  her.  It's  ridicu- 
lous. .  .  .  Why  is  he  wasting  his  time  on  her 
now?  " 

She  now  saw  the  smile  fade  from  Marietje's  lips, 
saw  the  girl,  on  the  contrary,  look  very  serious,  tell 
a  long  and  serious  story: 

"What  can  she  be  telling  him?"  thought 
Mathilde. 

And  she  saw  their  faces  come  nearer  to  each 
other:  it  was  as  though  Addie  were  reassuring 
Marietje,  explaining  things;  and  now,  now  he  laid 
his  hand  on  Marietje's  head  and  she  .  .  .  she  lay 
back  on  the  sofa. 

"  It's  absurd,"  thought  Mathilde,  "  this  hypnoti- 
zing .  .  .  and  that  they  should  be  alone  together 
for  so  long." 

Soon  the  hypnotism  took  effect.  Marietje  fell 
asleep  and  Addie  quietly  left  the  room.     Mathilde 


1 86  DR.  ADRIAAN 

waited  a  few  minutes  and  also  stole  away,  meeting 
no  one  on  the  stairs.   .    .    . 

What  she  had  seen  through  the  slit  in  the  wall- 
paper was  nothing;  and  yet  .  .  .  and  yet  she  could 
not  help  constantly  brooding  over  it.  .  .  .  She 
now  also  noticed,  at  lunch,  that  Marietje  was  much 
more  cheerful,  that  her  movements  were  much  less 
languid,  that  she  laughed  with  the  other  girls;  and 
she  noticed  that,  after  lunch,  she  helped  Adeletje 
with  the  plants  in  the  conservatory,  that  she  was 
beginning  to  join  in  the  life  of  the  others,  that  she 
no  longer  went  straight  back  to  her  room  as  she 
used  to  do  at  first.  .  .  ,  And  constantly  too,  down- 
stairs, in  the  conservatory,  she  was  struck  by  an 
intimacy  between  Marietje  and  Addie.  .  .  .  Ma- 
thilde  was  quite  sensible,  though  she  was  jealous  of 
her  husband;  she  was  jealous  of  all  his  patients;  she 
was  quite  sensible  and  thought : 

"  A  certain  affection  between  a  young  girl  and  a 
doctor,  a  young  doctor,  who  obviously  has  a  good 
influence  upon  her,  as  Addie  has,  is  easy  enough  to 
understand." 

And  she  wanted  to  go  on  thinking  so  sensibly,  she, 
a  woman  of  sound,  normal  sense,  but  it  was  difficult, 
very  difficult.  .  .  .  For  Addie  went  out  and  she 
at  once  saw  Marietje's  smile  disappear,  saw  her 
happy  vivacity  sink  as  it  were  .  .  .  and  Marietje 
soon  went  upstairs,  until  she  came  down  again  with 
Aunt  Constance  and  Adeletje  to  go  for  a  walk,  as 
they  did  every  afternoon  when  the  weather  was  not 
too  bad.  .  .  .  Mathilde  remained  upstairs,  played 
the  piano,  looked  out  upon  the  sad,  misty  road. 
.  .  .  Oh,  she  loved  her  husband,  she  even  loved 
him  passionately  and  she  was  living  here  for  his 
sake;  but  wasn't  it  awful,  wasn't  it  awful?  In 
Heaven's  name  wouldn't  it  be  better  just  to  move  to 
a  small  house  at  the  Hague   .    .    .   and  accept  the 


DR.  ADRIAAN  187 

pinch  of  poverty  ?  .  .  .  She  went  to  the  next  room, 
to  her  children :  they  had  been  out  and  were  playing 
prettily,  while  the  nurse  sat  at  the  window  sewing; 
and  now  she  did  not  know  what  to  do  next.  .  ,  . 
What  an  existence,  in  the  winter,  in  a  village  like 
this,  in  a  big  house,  a  house  full  of  sick  people  and 
mad  people !  As  it  happened,  through  the  window 
she  saw  Uncle  Ernst  walking  along  the  road,  with 
his  back  bent  under  his  long  coat,  talking  to  himself 
as  he  returned  to  his  rooms  in  the  villa  where  he 
was  being  looked  after:  what  an  existence,  oh,  what 
an  existence  .  .  .  for  a  young  and  healthy  woman 
like  herself!  She  was  never  susceptible  to  melan- 
choly; but  she  felt  a  twilight  descending  uoon  her 
from  the  unrelieved  sky  overhead.  She  could  have 
wept.  .  .  .  And  yet  she  could  have  stood  it  all, 
if  only  she  had  possessed  Addie  entirely.  ...  If 
only  she  could  win  him  entirely,  she  thought,  sud- 
denly; and  suddenly  it  occurred  to  her  that  she  did 
possess  him  .  .  .  but  not  entirely,  not  entirely. 
.  .  .  He  escaped  her,  so  to  speak,  in  '"art.  .  .  . 
They  had  love,  they  had  fervour  in  common;  they 
had  the  children  in  common;  they  had  bonds  of 
sympathy,  physical  sympathy  almost.  She  felt 
happy  in  his  arms  and  he  in  hers;  but  for  the  rest 
he  escaped  her.  Something  of  his  innermost  being, 
something  of  his  soul,  the  quintessence  of  his  soul, 
escaped  her,  whereas  she  gave  herself  wholly  to  him 
and  did  not  feel  within  herself  those  secret  things 
which  refused  to  surrender  themselves.  .  .  .  She 
felt  it,  she  understood  it  now;  suddenly,  under  the 
grey  melancholy  of  the  skies,  as  though  she  suddenly 
saw  clearly  in  that  twilight;  she  understood  it:  their 
love  was  merely  physical!  Oh,  he  escaped  her;  and 
she  did  not  know  how  she  was  ever  to  v/in  him 
entirely,  so  as  to  have  him  all  to  herself,  all  to  her- 
self!  .    .    .   Perhaps  if  she  began  to  take  an  interest 


1 88  DR.  ADRIAAN 

in  his  patients,  to  share  his  life  in  them?  But  she 
was  jealous  of  those  patients,  who  took  Addie  from 
her  for  hours  and  days  together;  and  she  was 
jealous,  very  jealous  of  Marietje.  .  .  .  But  what 
then?  How  was  she  to  win  him?  .  .  .  And  in 
this  rich-blooded  woman,  whose  senses  bloomed 
purple  and  fierce,  there  shot  up  as  with  a  riot  of 
red  roses  the  thought  of  winning  him  more  and  yet 
more  with  her  kisses,  with  her  whole  body,  with  all 
that  she  would  give  him,  with  all  that  she  would 
find  for  him,  to  wind  tendrils  round  him  and  bind 
him  to  her  for  ever  and  for  ever.  .  .  .  And  then, 
then  also  to  make  him  jealous  of  her,  as  she  was 
jealous  of  him,  by  disturbing  his  unruffled  calm,  the 
calm  of  a  young,  powerful  man,  with  painful  sus- 
picions, which  would  yet  bring  him  wholly  to  her, 
so  that  she  might  win  him  entirely.   .    .    . 

Oh,  wasn't  it  awful,  wasn't  it  awful?  As  it  was, 
she  sat  here  the  livelong  day  and  possessed  her 
husband  only  in  the  evening,  only  at  night,  as  though 
she  were  food  for  nothing  else.  It  went  against 
the  grain;  and  suddenly,  intuitively,  she  felt  her 
jealousy  of  Addie's  long  talks  with  Marietje  more 
sharply  than  before.  What  need  had  he  to  talk  to 
her  at  such  length?  Oh,  he  ought  not  to  neglect 
his  wife  so,  he  ought  not  to  think  her  good  only  for 
that:  he  ought  to  talk  to  her  also,  for  hours  at  a 
time,  earnestly,  strangely,  gazing  into  her  eyes,  as 
he  talked  to  Marietje !  Why  did  he  not  talk  to 
her,  his  wife,  like  that?  What  were  these  talks? 
What  had  those  two  to  talk  about?  It  was  not  only 
about  being  ill  and  about  medicines  and  not  even 
only  about  hypnotism:  of  that  she  was  convinced. 
There  existed  between  the  two  of  them  secret 
things,  about  which  they  talked,  things  which  they 
two  alone  knew.  .  .  .  Oh,  how  she  felt  her  hus- 
band escape  her,  as  though  she  were  stretching  out 


DR.  ADRIAAN  189 

her  fingers  at  him  covetously  and  as  though  she  did 
indeed  grip  him  in  her  hot  embrace  .  .  .  only  to 
lose  him  again  at  once  !    .    .    . 

Her  days  passed  in  constant  monotony.  She  was 
a  healthy,  superficial,  rather  vain,  very  young 
woman,  with  a  few  vulgar  aspirations;  and  she 
suffered  in  her  surroundings  because  she  had  an  un- 
doubted need  for  healthy  and  superficial  afifection. 
She  would  have  been  happy  leading  a  simple,  very 
carnal,  very  material  married  life,  with  plenty  of 
money,  plenty  of  enjoyment,  with  children  around 
her;  and  then  she  would  have  laughed  with  pride 
and  been  good,  as  far  as  she  was  able.  As  it  was, 
she  felt  that,  except  physically,  she  was  hardly  the 
wife  of  her  husband  and,  despite  her  children,  hardly 
accepted  by  his  family  and  hardly  suffered  in  their 
house.  And  she  peevishly  blamed  them  all,  thinking 
that  they  were  not  kind  to  her,  and  she  failed  to 
perceive  that  what  separated  her  from  them  all  was 
a  lack  of  spiritual  concord,  of  harmony,  of  sym- 
pathy, because  she  had  nothing  that  appealed  to 
them  and  they  had  nothing  that  appealed  to  her, 
because  the  emanations  from  her  soul  and  theirs 
never  reached  each  other  but  flowed  in  two  direct- 
ions, because  everything  that  they  understood  in  one 
another,  even  without  words,  she  did  not  under- 
stand, even  though  it  were  explained  to  her  in  words, 
because  she  looked  upon  them  as  sick,  mad,  egoistical 
and  nerve-ridden,  because  they  looked  upon  her  as 
shallow  and  vulgar.  It  was  an  antipathy  of  blood 
and  of  soul:  nobody  was  to  blame;  and  even  that 
she  did  not  understand.  The  only  one  to  blame, 
perhaps,  was  Addie,  because,  when  taking  her  for 
his  wife,  he  had  not  listened  to  the  soul  within  his 
soul  and  had  allowed  himself  to  be  led  only  by 
instinct  and  by  his  material  philosophy  of  regenera- 
tion: ^ 


190  DR.  ADRIAAN 

*'  She  is  a  healthy,  simple  woman.  I  want  healthy, 
simple  children.  That's  how  we  ought  all  to  be: 
healthy  and  simple  as  she  is." 

Were  those  not  the  ideas  which  had  made  him 
introduce  her  into  the  midst  of  them  all,  as  an  object 
lesson,  without  listening  to  the  still,  slumbering 
voices  of  his  soul's  soul?  .  .  .  And  scarcely  had 
those  voices  awakened  before  he  had  been  roused 
out  of  himself  with  the  thought: 

"  After  all,  I  found  her.  Why  should  I  lose  her 
now?  Who  am  I,  this  one  or  the  other?  And,  if 
I  am  both  those  whom  I  feel  within  me,  how  can 
I  unite  them  and  compel  them  into  a  single  love  for 
my  wife,  for  the  woman  who  gives  me  healthy, 
simple  children?  " 

And,  every  day  that  passed,  he  had  known  less 
for  himself,  whatever  he  might  know  for  all  of 
them  whom  he  approached  and  benefited  by 
strange  influence,  knowing  less  and  less  daily,  until 
he  saw  himself  plainly  as  two  and  gave  up  the 
struggle,  let  himself  go,  allowed  his  soul  to  drift 
at  the  will  of  the  two  streams  that  dragged  him 
along,  in  weakness  and  surrender  and  lack  of  know- 
ledge for  himself,  whereas  he  sometimes  knew  so 
clearly  for  others.  Self-knowledge  escaped  him. 
.  .  .  And,  if  Mathilde  had  been  able  to  see  this, 
in  her  husband,  she  would  have  shrunk  back  and 
been  dismayed  at  what,  all  incomprehensible  to  her, 
existed  secretly  in  the  most  mystic  part  of  him.  She 
would  have  been  shocked  by  it  as  by  a  never- 
suspected  riddle,  she  would  have  turned  giddy  as 
at  a  never-suspected  abyss  down  which  she  gazed 
without  knowing  where  it  ended,  a  bottomless  depth 
to  her  ignorant  eyes  and  quite  insusceptible  instincts. 
She  would  not  have  understood,  she  would  have 
refused  to  understand  that  there  was  no  blame  but 
only  self-insufficiency  and  inconsistency  of  soul,  in 


DR.  ADRIAAN  191 

silent  antagonism  and  antipathy,  because  Addie  felt 
himself  to  be  two.  She  would  have  wanted  to  blame 
.  .  .  them,  all  of  them,  because  "  they  were  not 
nice  to  her,"  but  not  her  husband,  for  she  loved  him 
because  of  his  sturdy  young  manliness,  because  of 
his  older  earnestness  and  thoroughness,  in  which  she 
failed  to  see  the  soul  of  his  soul.  And  she  now 
wanted,  unhappy  as  she  was,  to  continue  feeling  like 
that,  neglected,  offended,  underrated,  by  all  of  them 
in  that  large,  gloomy  house,  in  which  everything, 
down  to  the  dark  oak  doorposts,  was  hostile  and 
antagonistic  to  her,  until  she  felt  frightened  of  mys- 
teries in  or  upon  which  they  hardly  ever  touched 
in  speaking,  mysteries  which  were  even  almost  wel- 
come to  the  others  and  not  too  utterly  unintelligible 
in  their  communism  of  soul,  from  which  she  was 
irrevocably  excluded. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

That  night,  Marietje  van  Saetzema  had  a  dream 
which  was  like  a  nightmare.  She  was  running  down 
a  sloping  mountain,  deep  as  an  abyss;  she  rushed 
and  rushed  and  Addie  came  rushing  after  her  and 
Mathilde  after  Addie,  rushing  with  delirious 
screams.  After  Mathilde,  Johan  Erzeele  came 
rushing  and,  last  of  all,  Gerdy;  and  before  any  one 
of  them  reached  the  other,  Marietje,  who  was  run- 
ning in  front,  plunged  into  the  deep  abyss;  and  they 
all  plunged  after  her.  The  echoing  fall,  in  the 
black  depths,  made  Marietje  wake  with  a  start  to 
find  the  darkness  of  her  bedroom  quivering  all 
around  her,  the  strange  inner  darkness  of  the  night; 
and  she  was  cold  and  clammy  and  sat  up  wide-eyed, 
while  the  wind  blew  fiercely  outside.  Her  first 
impulse  was  to  get  up  and  run  out  of  the  room  for 
help,  to  Aunt  Constance,  to  Addie.  But,  growing 
calmer,  though  her  head  and  heart  were  still  throb- 
bing, she  let  herself  fall  back  upon  her  pillows  and 
controlled  her  fears.  She  would  stay  quietly  in  her 
room. 

A  month  ago,  she  would  never  have  done  as  much; 
at  the  Hague,  after  this  sort  of  dream,  she  would 
utter  cries,  go  running  through  the  house,  scream 
aloud.  Now  she  did  not  scream,  but  lay  where  she 
was  and  drove  the  feverish  thoughts  in  front  of 
her.  Yes,  feverish  she  was;  but  she  speedily  reco- 
vered a  sense  of  calmness,  as  soon  as  she  began  to 
think  of  Addie.    Hadn't  he  said  so  himself: 

"  Marietje,  when  you  feel  overstrung  .  .  . 
think  of  me  1  " 

193 


DR.  ADRIAAN  193 

And  she  thought  of  him;  and  things  began  to 
smile  and  to  grow  very  calm  around  her.  .  .  .  She 
gave  a  deep  sigh.  .  .  .  She  recalled  the  words 
which  he  used  when  hypnotizing  her: 

"  The  body  is  growing  heavy.  .  .  .  The  hand 
is  growing  heavy.  .  .  .  You  can't  lift  your 
hand.   ..." 

And,  though  she  did  not  fall  asleep,  she  became 
very  quiet  and  smiled  contentedly.  True,  she  knew 
that  he  said  the  same  thing  to  all  the  patients  whom 
he  hypnotized: 

"  Think  of  me,  whenever  you  feel  your  nerves 
give  way." 

But  she,  when  she  thought  of  him  .  .  .  was  she 
in  love  with  him?  Perhaps;  she  didn't  know:  per- 
haps she  did  love  him,  deep  down  within  herself, 
in  the  chastest  recesses  of  her  soul;  perhaps  she  had 
been  in  love  with  him  for  years,  ever  since  he  used 
to  talk  to  her  so  kindly — he  a  small  boy,  she  a 
rather  bigger  girl,  but  about  the  same  age — when 
her  brothers  were  so  rough  to  her  and  Mamma, 
Floortje  and  Caroline  used  to  snub  her,  as  they 
always  did.  In  the  noisy,  uproarious,  vulgar  house, 
she  had  grown  up  quietly,  like  a  little  pale  plant, 
humble,  oppressed,  as  it  were  hiding  herself,  until 
suddenly  some  impulse  in  her  blood  had  made  her 
scream  the  house  down  with  neurotic  cries.  They 
all  asked  whether  she  had  gone  mad;  and  she  had 
locked  herself  up  since,  hidden  herself,  in  her 
room.  .  .  .  And,  after  these  attacks,  she  would 
remain  behind  as  in  a  dream,  seeing  nothing, 
hearing  r^othing  around  her,  just  staring.  And,  when 
she  saw  that  her  condition  at  last  made  an 
impression,  she  at  once  became  proud  of  that 
impression,  lifted  herself  out  of  the  Cinderella 
humility,  became  the  interesting  figure  at  home,  now 
that  she  aroused  her  father's  fears,  her  mother'* 


194  DR.  ADRIAAN 

pity,  her  sister's  annoyance.  And  she  had  grown 
proud  of  her  neuroticism;  she  let  father,  mother 
and  sister  feel  fear,  pity  and  annoyance,  with  a  sort 
of  vindictive  satisfaction.  Yet  she  had  a  vague 
feeling  of  deep  unhappiness,  because  her  soul  was 
sinking  as  into  an  abyss,  her  hands  groping  vaguely 
in  the  terrible  void.  .  .  .  She  would  spend  days 
in  tears.  Then  Aunt  Constance  had  come,  so  kind, 
so  gentle,  so  sensible;  and  she  had  resisted,  because 
perhaps  she  was  very  fond  of  Addie  and  always 
had  been,  in  obedience  to  some  modest  dread,  did 
not  wish  to  live  where  he  lived.  But  Aunt  Con- 
stance had  insisted  and  she  had  yielded;  and  Addie, 
Addie  was  now  curing  her:  oh,  he  cured  her  when 
he  merely  pressed  his  hand  softly  on  her  forehead ! 
And  she  confessed  to  him  the  wicked,  arrogant  pride 
in  her  illness,  which  at  last  created  an  agitation  in 
the  paternal  house  where  Marietje  had  never 
counted.   .    .    . 

He  had  listened  so  earnestly,  telling  her  that  this 
was  very  wrong,  that  it  was  the  worst  of  all  and 
that,  with  such  wicked  feelings  she  would  never  get 
well.  And,  after  that,  he  talked  for  days,  oh,  so 
earnestly!  And  she  listened  to  him  in  ecstasy,  as 
though  her  soul  were  rocking  on  his  deep,  soothing 
voice.  And  gradually,  gradually,  she  had  discovered 
in  him — oh,  no  affection  for  her,  no  ordinary 
affection  or  love,  for  she  was  plain  and  thin  and 
without  charm,  while  Mathilde  was  so  handsome :  a 
beautiful  woman! — but  a  real  harmony  between 
some  of  his  feelings  and -views  with  what  she,  in 
her  silent  life  as  a  lonely,  down-trodden  little  girl, 
had  thought  about  all  sorts  of  people,  animals, 
things,  about  everything  which  had  aroused  her  com- 
passion in  her  youthful  earnestness  and  hypersensi- 
tiveness:  about  the  wind  lashing  the  leaves;  about 
a  driver  ill-treating  a  horse;  about  Aunt  Adeline, 


DR.  ADRIAAN  195. 

Granny,  Emilie,  little  Klaasje;  about  poor  people 
whom  she  would  sometimes  go  and  visit  with  Aunt 
Constance  and  Adeletje.  And  thus,  slowly,  out  of 
all  these  small,  simple  feelings  something  had 
thrilled  in  unison  with  his  feelings,  had  roused 
kindred  feelings  in  him,  until  they  had  talked  of 
all  sorts  of  strange  presentiments  and  dreams,  of 
existence  before  life  and  after  death,  of  an  invisible 
world  and  life  crossing  their  threads  with  the  visible 
world  and  life.  And,  when  sometimes  she  had  been 
a  liltle  fanciful,  Addie  had  always  understood  her, 
but  at  the  same  time,  with  all  his  restfulness  and 
strength,  his  seriousness  and  smiling  earnestness,  had 
quieted  her  in  her  hypersensitiveness  and  hyper- 
imagination,  in  her  dread  and  surmise,  until  she  now 
discussed  all  those  questions  with  him  so  quietly, 
in  words  that  quickly  understood  one  another,  so 
that,  even  in  these  conversations,  which  might  easily 
have  made  her  more  neurotic,  he  satisfied  her  and 
lulled  all  the  anxious  thrills  of  her  sick  girlish  nerves 
and  soul.  There  was  a  mystic  force  in  his  voice, 
in  his  glance,  in  the  pressure  of  his  hand,  so  that, 
even  after  these  conversations,  she  remained  lying 
in  a  deep  and  blissful  sleep  and,  after  half  an  hour, 
woke  from  it  as  though  rising  refreshed  out  of  a 
wide,  still  bath  on  strangely  rarefied  air,  like  cool 
water,  which  gave  her  an  incomprehensible,  blissful 
sense  of  spiritual  well-being. 

And  that  peaceful  life  of  sympathy  was  healing  to 
her,  whereas  it  vexed  Mathilde.  She  thought  that 
it  would  always  keep  flowing  on  like  this;  and  she 
was  greatly  surprised  when  she  suddenly  heard 
of  a  ball  at  Utrecht  to  which  they  were  all  in- 
vited. 

"Which  of  you  want  to  go?"  asked  Constance. 
"  I  shall  stay  at  home,  but  Uncle  will  chaperon 
you."  • 


196  DR.  ADRIAAN 

Mathilde  loved  the  idea,  even  though  Addie  did 
not  give  it  a  thought.  Of  the  girls,  however,  only 
Gerdy  cared  about  it;  but  Guy  would  go  with  her. 

"  So  none  of  you:  Adeletje?  .  .  .  Mary?  .  .  . 
Marietje?" 

No,  they  did  not  feel  inclined,  even  though  Aunt 
Constance  urged  them,  said  that  they  very  seldom 
had  any  fun,  that  they  ought  really  to  go,  now  that 
the  chance  offered.  But  the  girls  didn't  want  to; 
and  Aunt  Constance  said : 

"Well,  then,  you  and  Uncle  will  just  make  four; 
so  you  can  go  in  the  carriage." 

But  Mathilde  preferred  to  dress  at  Utrecht,  in 
an  hotel,  because  her  dress  would  get  creased  in 
the  carriage ;  and  she  decided  to  go  in  the  afternoon, 
with  a  box. 

On  the  evening  of  the  ball,  Constance  grumbled 
at  Adeletje,  Mary  and  Marietje,  because  they  took 
no  pleasure  in  dancing,  and  said  that,  if  this  went 
on,  they  would  move  to  the  Hague,  because  the  girls 
were  growing  so  dull  in  the  country.  Constance' 
nerves  were  raw;  and  she  said  angry,  unreasonable 
things;  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  But,  Auntie,"  said  Marietje,  "  we're  all  so 
happy  here  together!  Why  talk  about  the  Hague? 
What  do  we  care  about  a  dance  ?  " 

"  That's  just  it.    I  think  it  unnatural." 

"  Listen  to  it  blowing!  "  said  Adeletje. 

"  And  raining!  "  said  Marietje — Mary. 

"  That's  what  Uncle  and  Gerdy  and  Guy  are 
driving  through,"  said  Adeletje. 

"The  poor  horses!  "  said  Marietje — Mary. 

The  others  laughed. 

"  Yes,  the  horses  will  get  wet,  poor  things!  "  said 
Marietje — Mary. 

"  Dirk'U  look  after  them,"  said  Constance. 
"The  horses  are  taken  out  so  seldom." 


DR.  ADRIAAN  197 

"  But  when  they  are  .  .  .  they  are  taken  out 
In  the  rain !  "  said  Mary,  reproachfully. 

Paul  was  there,  playing  softly  on  the  piano. 
Ernst  was  there;  and  It  was  very  strange  to  see  the 
friends  which  he  had  silently  made  with  Klaasje. 
Together  they  looked  in  her  picture-books:  the  un- 
naturally old  queer  man  and  the  unnaturally  young 
child. 

"  I  can  read  now,"  said  the  backward  girl  of 
thirteen,  very  proudly. 

"  Really?  "  said  Uncle  Ernst. 

"  Yes,  Uncle  Addle  Is  teaching  me  to  read.  Look, 
in  these  books,  with  pretty  letters,  blue,  yellow,  red. 
That's  violet.  And  that.  Uncle  Addie  says,  Is 
purple.  That's  purple :  a  lovely  colour,  purple. 
Uncle  Addie  teaches  me  to  read." 

And  laboriously  she  spelt  out  the  highly  coloured 
words. 

"  So  Uncle  Addie  teaches  you  to  read  with 
coloured  letters?"  asked  Ernst. 

"  Yes,  I  don't  like  black  letters.  And  look  at 
my  books :  all  with  beautiful  pictures.  That's  a  king 
and  a  queen.  It's  a  fairy-tale,  Uncle.  This  Is  a 
fairy.  The  king  and  queen  are  purple  .  .  .  pur- 
ple ;  and  the  fairy — look,  Uncle,  look  at  the  fairy — 
is  sky-blue.    Uncle  Addie  says  it's  a-zure." 

She  drew  out  the  word  In  a  long,  caressing  voice, 
as  though  the  names  of  the  colours  had  a  peculiar 
meaning  for  her,  rousing  In  her  strange  memories 
of  very  early  colours,  colours  seen  In  gay,  faraway 
countries,  down,  down  yonder.    .    .    . 

"  Mr.  Brauws  won't  come,"  said  Emilie. 

"  No,  it's  raining  too  hard,"  said  Adeline.  "  He 
won't  come  this  evening." 

*'  He's  become  so  much  one  of  the  family." 

The  evening  passed  quietly;  the  old  grandmother 
and  Klaasje  were  taken  and  put  to  bed;  but,  because 


198  DR.  ADRIAAN 

Aunt  Constance  was  sitting  up  till  the  carriage  re- 
turned from  Utrecht,  they  all  wanted  to  sit  up. 

"  What  an  idea !  "  said  Constance,  with  nervous 
irritability.     "  Why  don't  you  all  go  to  bed?  " 

But  they  were  gathered  round  her  so  pleasantly 
and  they  stayed  up:  Addie,  Emilie,  Adeline,  Mari- 
etje;  but  Addie  sent  Adeletje  and  Mary  to  bed. 

And  they  sat  waiting  downstairs  in  the  night.  It 
was  three  o'clock  when  at  last  they  heard  the  car- 
riage; and  Van  der  Welcke,  Gerdy  and  Guy 
entered. 

"  Mathilde  is  spending  the  night  at  the  hotel," 
said  Van  der  Welcke. 

"  And  Uncle  made  a  very  sweet  chaperon,"  said 
Guy,  chaffingly. 

But  Gerdy  did  not  say  much,  looked  tired,  very 
pale,  constrained.  They  went  upstairs,  to  their 
rooms,  and  Gerdy  kissed  her  mother.  But,  without 
the  others  seeing  it,  she  followed  Adeline  to  her 
room  and  suddenly,  unable  to  contain  herself,  burst 
into  a  paroxysm  of  tears. 

"  Darling,  darling,  what  is  it?  " 

And  the  mother,  long  since  broken,  took  the  girl, 
now  breaking,  into  her  arms  and  it  was  as  though 
she  suddenly  wakened  from  her  apathy  and  felt  her- 
self very  much  a  mother.  .  .  .  Oh,  she  knew  that 
she  could  not  do  much  for  her  children,  that  she  was 
not  capable,  never  had  been  since  Gerrit's  death, 
that  without  Van  der  Welcke,  Constance  and  Addie 
she  could  not  have  made  anything  of  her  children ! 
Nevertheless,  they  remained  her  children;  and,  if 
she  did  not  know  how  to  guide  her  sons  in  their 
careers,  she  did  know  how  to  sympathize  with  her 
poor  Gerdy's  sobs. 

"  Darling,  darling,  what  is  it?  " 

And,  dropping  into  her  chair,  while  Gerdy  knelt 
before  her  in  the  folds  of  her  white-tulle  frock,  she 


DR.  ADRIAAN  199 

held  the  pale  little  face  against  her  and  compelled 
the  child  to  speak,  to  speak.    .    .    . 

"  It's  nothing,"   said  Gerdy,  through  her  sobs. 
"  I  didn't  enjoy  myself." 

"  You  didn't?    Why,  what  happened?  " 

"  I  hardly  danced  at  all." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Mamma,  it's  better  to  tell  you  plainly.    I'm  so 
unhappy !    It's  about  Johan   ..." 

"  Erzeele  ?    Has  he  proposed  to  you  ?  " 

Gerdy  shook  her  head : 

"No,  but  ..." 

"But  what?" 

"  In  the  winter  .  .  .  skating  ...  I  thought 
he  was  fond  of  me.  .  .  .  It's  my  own  fault;  It 
was  silly  of  me.  It  was  silly.  ...  It  wasn't  any- 
thing. .  .  .  He  was  just  the  same  to  me  as  to 
other  girls;  and  I  thought,  I  thought  .  .  .  It's 
nothing,  Mamma,  it's  my  own  fault,  but  I  thought 
.  .  .  Mamma,  I  oughtn't  to  take  it  so  much  to 
heart  .  .  .  but  it  makes  me  very  unhappy.  .  .  . 
He  danced  with  me,  once.  .  .  .  But  he  danced 
with  Mathilde  the  whole  time.  .  .  .  He  was  al- 
ways with  her.  .  .  .  People  were  talking  about  It. 
...  It  was  just  as  if  she  was  mad,  as  If  she  didn't 
think  .  .  .  that  she  oughtn't  to  behave  like  that 
.  .  .  with  Johan.  ...  It  struck  Uncle  Henri 
too :  I  could  see  it  by  his  face.  They  were  together 
the  whole  evening  and  .  .  .  you  understand.  .  .  . 
He  paid  her  attentions  .  .  .  shamelessly  .  .  . 
the  way  he  does  to  married  women.  .  .  .  With 
girls  he's  different.  ...  I  hated  him  for  a  mo- 
ment. But  then  he  came  and  asked  me,  for  that  one 
dance  .  .  .  and  then  I  thought  ...  I  oughtn't 
to  have  thought  it.  It's  my  own  fault.  I'm  very 
unhappy.  Mamma.  .  .  .  Uncle  Henri  was  very 
angry  too   .    .    .   with  Mathilde   .    .    .   because  she 


200  DR.  ADRIAAN 

wouldn't  come  back  with  us  to  Driebergen.  .  ,  . 
He  gave  way  and  let  her  stay,  to  avoid  unpleasant- 
ness. .  .  .  But  it  was  ridiculous  of  her:  the  car- 
riage is  big  enough  and  she  would  not  have  been 
so  badly  creased.  .  .  .  Oh,  she  looked  lovely,  she 
looked  lovely!  .  .  .  She  is  quite  lovely,  dressed 
like  that,  at  a  ball.  .  .  .  Addie  ought  to  have  come 
with  us.  .  .  .  She  was  really  beautiful,  but  not — 
it's  wrong  of  me  to  say  it,  I  know — not  like  us." 

"  How  do  you  mean,  dear?  " 

"  Not  like  Aunt  Constance  and  Emilie  and 
you.  .  .  .  She  didn't  .  .  .  she  didn't  look  well- 
bred.  .  .  .  She  looked  beautiful,  but  she  looked 
coarse.  ...  If  Addie  had  come,  perhaps  she 
would  have  restrained  herself,  not  worn  her  dress 
so  low.  She  was  the  only  one  in  such  a  very  low 
frock.  .  .  .  You  see,  there  was  something  about 
her  .  .  .  that  repelled  me  even  more  than  usual: 
I  can't  say  what  and  it's  very  wrong  of  me,  because 
after  all  she's  Addie's  wife  and  we  must  be  fond  of 
her;  but  really,  she  didn't  look  a  lady;  and  I  could 
see  it  in  people's  faces :  they  thought  her  very  hand- 
some .  .  .  but  not  .  .  .  not  well-bred.  .  .  . 
And  .  .  .  after  that  .  .  .  when  she  did  no- 
thing but  dance  with  Johan  .  .  .  then  .  .  .  oh. 
Mamma,  then  she  looked  at  me  .  .  .  and  looked 
at  me  with  a  sneer  .  .  .  as  if  she  were  looking 
down  on  me !  .  .  .  I  knew  that  I  was  not  at  my 
best,  that  I  looked  pale  and  thin;  my  shoulders  are 
not  good;  and  Johan  behaved  so  oddly  to  me,  in 
such  a  queer,  mocking  way:  oh.  Mamma,  he  was 
almost  cruel!  .  .  .  I  do  believe,  oh.  Mamma,  I 
do  believe,  that  I  .  .  .  that  I'm  in  love  with  him  I 
But  I  oughtn't  to  tell  you  and  I  oughtn't  to  be  like 
this  ...  I  oughtn't  to  cry  so;  but  I  couldn't  help 
it,  I  couldn't  help  it!  .  .  .1  did  my  best,  Mamma, 
not  to  show  it  before  Uncle  Henri  and  before  Guy, 


DR.  ADRIAAN  201 

but,  oh,  Mamma,  the  whole  dance  .  .  .  the  whole 
dance  was  a  torture !  " 

Adeline  mingled  her  sobs  with  Gerdy's: 

"  My  darling,  my  poor,  poor  darling!  " 

"  Mamma !    Oh,  Mamma !  " 

"  What  is  it,  my  poor  dear?  " 

"  Listen,  Mamma !  " 

"What?" 

"  Don't  you  hear?    The  sound  .    .    .   upstairs!" 

"Hush!  .    .    .  Hush!   ...  The  sound  .    .    ." 

"  Is  dragging  itself   .    .    . " 

"  Downstairs.  It's  like  a  footstep.  It's  always 
like  that." 

"  Oh,  Mamma,  I'm  frightened!  " 

"  It's  nothing,  dear :  the  wind,  a  draught,  a  board 
creaking   ..." 

"Oh,  but  I'm  frightened!" 

"  It's  nothing.  ...  I  opened  the  door  once 
...  to  look." 

"You  dared  to?  "^ 

"  Yes.    It  was  nothing." 

"  There  was  nothing  to  see?   ..." 

"  No.    It  was  only  very  draughty." 

"  And  everything's  closed !  " 

"  It's  nothing,  it's  nothing,  dear." 

"  Now  it's  dragging  itself  away  .  .  .  down  be- 
low.  ..." 

"  It's  the  draught.  .  .  .  Oh,  my  poor,  poor 
darling !  " 

"  Oh,  Mamma,  I'm  unhappy  .  .  .  and  I'm 
frightened,  I'm  frightened,  I'm  frightened!   ..." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

When  Mathilde  returned  next  morning,  she  seemed 
to  perceive  a  certain  displeasure,  a  coldness  in  her 
husband,  in  her  mother-in-law  and  in  all  of  them; 
but  she  decided  that  perhaps  she  was  mistaken :  she 
was  tired,  she  was  unstrung;  and,  after  she  had  been 
to  see  the  children,  she  kept  to  her  own  room,  where 
she  knew  that  no  one  would  disturb  her,  now  that 
Addie  had  gone  out  to  his  patients.  And  it  was  not 
the  surmised  displeasure,  the  unwonted  fatigue  after 
the  ball  that  made  her  nervous,  as  though  she  was 
infected  by  a  nervous  thrill  from  all  who  surrounded 
her:  it  was  particularly  because  of  Johan  Erzeele 
that  she  was  now  walking  restlessly  round  her  room, 
sitting  down  at  the  window,  getting  up  again,  going 
in  to  the  children,  coming  back  again,  sitting  down 
to  the  piano,  looking  over  her  ball-programme  and 
suddenly  tearing  it  up.  .  .  .  Now,  suddenly,  she 
reproached  herself  with  all  sorts  of  things  that  had 
happened  the  night  before:  for  dancing  with  Johan 
so  often,  even  though  she  had  known  him  all  her 
life  as  a  young  girl  at  the  Hague,  where  he  was  a 
subaltern  in  the  grenadiers,  while  his  people  lived 
at  Utrecht;  for  flirting  with  him  in  so  marked  a 
way  at  supper;  for  allowing  him  to  speak  like  that, 
with  his  brazen,  sensual  fashion  of  making  love  to 
her;  for  knowing  and  deliberately  encouraging  his 
brazenness;  lastly,  for  scarcely  preventing  him  from 
escorting  her  on  foot — because  it  was  so  near — to 
the  hotel,  where  she  had  reserved  a  room. 

She  had  lost  her  temper,  refused,  asked  for  a 
carriage,  and  ridden  alone  to  the  hotel  where  she 

2o2 


DR.  ADRIAAN  203 

had  spent  the  night;  but  his  offer  and  the  words  in 
which  he  had  couched  it  had  shocked  her,  had 
frightened  her  all  through  that  night,  that  short 
night,  so  that  she  had  not  had  a  moment's  sleep. 
And  now  she  was  angry  with  herself  for  not  sum- 
moning up  her  usual  sound  sense,  so  that  he  had 
seen  how  frightened  and  shocked  she  was  and  had 
laughed  at  it,  with  the  caressing  laugh  of  his  well- 
shaped  mouth.  And,  because  she  was  angry  with 
herself,  all  sorts  of  nervous  excuses  went  whirling 
through,  all  her  grievances,  great  and  small,  came 
surging  up,  as  though  to  defend  her  against  herself, 
against  her  own  self-reproach.  Why  couldn't  Addie 
have  gone  too  ?  Why  must  he  leave  her  to  her  own 
devices  like  that?  Why  was  she  only  good  for  the 
one  thing?  Why  did  he  hold  such  long  conversa- 
tions, full  of  strange  intensity,  with  that  ailing 
Marietje?  Why  did  she  sometimes,  through  his 
kisses,  feel  a  strange  chill  come  out  of  him  and 
freeze  her,  so  that  the  spontaneous  word  grew  still 
and  lifeless  on  her  lips  and  she  no  longer  knew  what 
to  say :  she  only  knew  that  she  was  losing  him,  again 
and  again  and  again,  while  all  the  others,  down 
below,  were  winning  him,  winning  him  for  them- 
selves !  Oh,  how  the  grievances  whirled  up,  fighting 
against  her  self-reproach,  until  at  last  she  burst  into 
tears,  sheer  nervous  tears,  such  as  she  had  never 
shed  before !  And,  as  though  the  grievances  were 
winning,  she  suddenly  laid  the  blame  on  Addie,  on 
all  of  them,  on  her  husband's  whole  family,  on 
Driebergen,  on  the  house  full  of  lunatics  and  in- 
valids, on  the  eerie,  haunted  house  where  she  could 
not  breathe,  while  they  all,  down  below,  found  living 
there  so  delightful.  She  blamed  them  all,  blamed 
the  whole  house  for  it,  that  she  was  losing  her  sound 
sense  and  had  allowed  Johan  to  say  all  sorts  of 
things  to  her  which  otherwise  she  would  never  have 


204  DR.  ADRIAAN 

allowed.  And,  in  her  tears,  while  still  blaming  him 
— because  she  did  not  see  that  there  was  no  blame, 
that  no  one  was  to  blame  for  anything,  while  she 
was  casting  about  to  whom  to  impute  the  blame — she 
longed  for  her  husband,  felt  that  she  was  still  very 
much  in  love  with  him,  that  she  would  have  liked  to 
embrace  him,  to  clasp  him  close  to  her,  to  weep  out 
her  sorrows  on  his  heart,  to  hear  his  deep,  young, 
earnest  voice,  to  look  into  his  deep,  young  earnest 
eyes,  so  that  she  might  grow  calm  again  and  happy, 
far  away,  with  him  and  her  children!  Now  she 
longed  for  him  to  come  back;  now  she  looked  out 
down  the  road;  and,  when  she  saw  him — the  bell 
was  ringing  for  lunch,  because  Truitje  downstairs 
had  also  seen  him  coming  up  the  road — she  ran 
down  and  was  just  in  time  to  kiss  him  in  the  morning- 
room  and  to  whisper : 

"  Addie,  Addie,  you  do  love  me?  " 

"Why,  of  course,  darling!"  he  answered, 
gravely  and,  she  thought,  almost  sadly. 

And  now,  sitting  silent  at  table,  feeling  all  sorts 
of  reproaches  around  her,  she  asked  herself,  was 
it  not  his  fault,  was  it  not  his  fault?  What  she 
really  imagined  to  be  his  fault  she  did  not  clearly 
see,  for  it  was  all  whirling  through  her  mind;  she 
kept  on  thinking  of  Johan  Erzeele,  kept  on  feeling 
her  self-reproach;  and  the  grievances  surged  up,  like 
lances,  more  numerous  than  before,  to  defend  her 
against  that  self-reproach. 

Gerdy  had  not  come  down  to  lunch :  she  was  tired, 
Adeline  said.  The  tone  of  the  conversation  was 
forced;  and  Mathilde  reflected  that  it  was  always  so 
when  she  was  there,  when  they  would  look  at  one 
another  askance,  in  a  silent  understanding  against 
her,  against  her.    .    .    . 

Lunch  finished,  the  children,  Jetje  and  Constant, 
went  out,  after  Addie  had  first  played  with  them. 


DR.  ADRIAAN  205 

Yes,  he  was  fond  of  the  children,  but  was  he  fond 
of  her,  of  his  wife?   .    .    . 

"  Addie,  Addie,  you  do  love  me,  don't  you?  " 

She  had  found  another  opportunity  of  asking 
him ;  and  he  answered : 

*'  Why,  of  course,  dear." 

"  Stay  with  me  to-day." 

"  Very  well.  What  would  you  like  to  do?  Shall 
we  go  for  a  walk?    It's  fine." 

"  Yes,  Addie,  I'd  like  to." 

And  they  went  out  together  and  roamed  along 
deserted  paths;  she  took  his  arm: 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  be  with  you.  .  .  .  You  ought 
to  have  come  yesterday.    ..." 

*'  I  don't  care  for  dancing  .  .  .  but,  if  you  had 
asked  me   .    .    . " 

"  You  would  have  refused." 

"  Perhaps  not." 

"  Yes,  you  would.  ...  I  sha'n't  go  again,  with- 
out you.    I  want  to  dance  with  you,  with  you." 

"  I  like  skating  better." 

"  There,  you  see,  you're  refusing  already!  " 

"  No,  I  won't  refuse :  I  shall  come  with  you,  next 
time." 

"  I'm  happy  when  I'm  with  you.  .  .  .  Addie, 
couldn't  we  go  and  live  alone,  with  our  children?" 

"  Whenever  you  like,  darling." 

"  Yes,  but  you're  attached  to  the  house." 

"  Yes,  I'm  attached  to  it." 

*'  It  would  be  a  sacrifice  for  you." 

He  made  a  vague  gesture : 

"  Only  you'd  have  to  be  economical  at  the 
Hague." 

"  You  would  soon  have  a  fine  practice  there." 

"  But  I'm  not  aiming  at  ...    a  fine  practice." 

"Ah,  that's  just  it!" 

He  yielded  to  a  slight  sense  of  impatience ; 


2o6  DR.  ADRIAAN 

"  It's  a  pity,  Tilly,  that  you  find  it  so  difficult  to 
adapt  yourself  here.  .  .  .  Very  well,  we'll  go  to 
the  Hague." 

"  But,  if  you're  obstinate  .  .  .  and  refuse  to 
earn  an  income,"  she  said,  impetuously. 

"  We  shall  have  enough." 

"How  much?" 

He  made  a  brief  calculation: 

"  Say,  five  thousand  guilders,  no  more." 

"  But  I  can't  live  on  that  .  .  .  with  two  child- 
ren. 

"  It  ought  to  be  enough,  Tilly." 

"  But  it's  nonsense,  trying  to  live  at  the  Hague 
on  five  thousand  guilders  a  year  .  .  .  with  two 
children." 

"  Then  what  do  you  want?  "  he  asked,  bluntly. 

"  I  want  you  to  get  a  practice.  .  .  .  You  have 
only  to  wish  it:  you  would  become  the  fashion  at 
once." 

He  was  silent. 

"  Why  don't  you  answer?  " 

"  Because  we  don't  understand  each  other,  Tilly," 
he  said,  sadly.  "  I  can't  give  up  the  practice  which 
I  have  in  order  to  become  a  fashionable  doctor." 

"Why  not,  if  it  pays?" 

"  Because  it  conflicts  with  all  .  .  .  with  every- 
thing inside  me." 

"  I  don't  understand." 

"  I  know  you  don't." 

"  Then  explain  it  to  me." 

"  It  can't  be  explained,  Tilly.  It  can  only  be 
felt" 

"  So  I  have  no  feeling?  " 

"  Not  for  that  ...  no  fellow-feeling  .  .  . 
with  me.   ..." 

"  Why  did  you  marry  me  ?  "  she  asked,  curtly. 

"  Because  I  love  you." 


DR.  ADRIAAN  207 

"  Because  you  love  me ! "  she  echoed,  curtly. 
"  Because  I'm  good  enough   .    .    .    for  that !  " 

Her  eyes  flashed. 

"Tilly!  "he  implored. 

It  was  as  though  a  sudden  terror  blinded  him,  as 
though  a  spectre  of  guilt  suddenly  loomed  up  out  of 
all  the  black  self-insufficiency  of  the  last  few  years, 
his  years  of  married  life. 

"  Because  I'm  good  enough  ...  to  bear  you 
children.  Because  you  want  to  have  children  by 
me,  healthy  children,  children  different  from  your 
family,  your  mother's  family." 

"Tilly!" 

*'  Addie !  "  she  entreated.  "  Love  me !  Love 
me!" 

"  I  do  love  you,  Tilly !  "  he  cried,  in  despair. 

"  Love  me  altogether!  " 

"  I  do  love  you  altogether !  "  he  lied,  in  anguish 
for  her  sake. 

**  No,  you  love  me   .    .    .   half!" 

"  That's  not  so  !  " 

"  Yes,  it  is,  you  know  it  is !  .  .  .1  want  to  be 
loved  by  you  altogether  and  not  only   ..." 

"  Hush,  Tilly,"  he  entreated,  in  dismay.  "  Tilly, 
don't  let  us  spoil  our  happiness !  " 

"  Our  happiness !  "  she  laughed,  scornfully. 

"  Aren't  we  happy  then?  " 

And  he  tried  to  force  her  to  say  yes,  but  she  was 
suffering  too  much  and  exclaimed: 

"  No,  I  am  not  happy !  When  I  embrace 
you  ..."  she  clutched  her  fingers.  "When  I 
have  embraced  you,"  she  went  on,  "  it's  over,  it's 
over,  it's  over  at  once ;  I  feel  that  you  are  far  away 
from  me  again;  that  you  don't  love  me." 

"  I  do  love  you,  I  do  love  you  1  " 

"  Then  talk  to  me." 

"  I  do." 


»o8  DR.  ADRIAAN 

"  No,  talk  to  me  as  you  talk  to  Mary." 

"  But,  Tilly,  I  talk  to  her  .    .    .   to  calm  her." 

"That's  a  lie  I" 

"Tilly!" 

"  It's  a  lie !  .  .  .  You  talk  to  her  .  .  .  you 
talk  to  her  because  you're  in  love  with  her  I  " 

"Tilly,  stop  that  I" 

"  Not  as  you  are  with  me  .  .  .  but  differ- 
ently.  ..." 

Suddenly  he  grasped  her  wrist.  She  knew  his 
sudden  bursts  of  anger.  They  were  very  rare;  but 
she  knew  them.  And,  because  he  was  dazzled  by 
the  sudden  light  that  shone  from  her,  because  from 
all  the  gloom  of  his  self-insufficiency  a  consciousness 
of  guilt  came  looming  up  to  frighten  him : 

"  And  now,  silence !  "  he  cried,  shaking  her  arm. 
"Silence!    I  command  it!  " 

He  no  longer  knew  things.  Life  whirled  dizzily 
before  him,  deep  as  a  black  abyss. 

He  stood  in  front  of  her  on  the  lonely  road;  and 
it  was  as  though  his  grey  eyes  flashed  lightning, 
shooting  blue  spark  after  blue  spark  of  rage  and 
pain.  His  whole  face  quivered,  his  body  quivered, 
his  voice  quivered  with  rage  and  pain.  She  felt  a 
furious  resistance  rise  within  her  .  .  .  together 
with  black  despair.  She  felt  an  impulse  to  rush  into 
his  arms,  to  sob  out  her  sorrow  on  his  heart.  But 
she  did  not  want  his  caresses:  she  wanted  the  thing 
that  escaped  her.  It  was  escaping  her  now;  and, 
when  she  said  it,  when  she  said  it  straight  out,  he 
commanded  her  to  be  silent,  not  to  say  it.  Wasn't 
it  his  fault,  wasn't  it  his  fault?  Wasn't  she 
right  ? 

She  released  her  hand: 

"  You  don't  love  me,"  she  said,  curtly. 

"  No.  When  you  speak  to  me  like  that,  I  don't. 
I'm  not  in  love  with  Marietje.    I'm  sorry  for  her." 


DR.  ADRIAAN  209 

His  voice  was  very  calm  and  full  of  feeling;  and 
she,  also  grown  calmer,  answered : 

"  You  feel  for  her." 

"  I  do." 

"Well,  then   ..." 

"  But  you  have  no  right  to  bring  that  up  against 
me.  I  don't  grant  you  that  right  .  .  .  because, 
Tilly  ..." 

"Right,  right?  What  rights  have  I?  I  have 
no  rights!  .  .  I  live  in  your  house  on  suf- 
ferance.   ..." 

"Tilly,  be  careful!" 

"Why  should  I?" 

"  You're  destroying  our  happiness." 

"  It  doesn't  exist." 

"Yes,  it  does   .    .    .   if  .    .    ." 

He  passed  his  hand  over  his  head.  There  was  a 
cold  wind  blowing;  and  the  beads  of  perspiration 
stood  on  his  forehead. 

"  If  you  would  be  reasonable." 

"  And  share  you?  " 

"  Share  me?   .    .    .  With  whom?"  he  roared. 

"  Not  with  her,  perhaps,"  she  resumed,  fright- 
ened, "  but  with   .    .    .   with   ..." 

"With  whom?" 

"  With  them  all." 

"All  whom?" 

"  Your  family  ...  all  of  them  .  .  .  whom 
you  love  more  than  me." 

"  I  don't  love  them  more." 

"  No,  but  you  feel  with  them  .  .  .  and  not  with 
me. 

"  Then  feel  with  me !  "  he  implored,  as  though  to 
save  both  her  and  himself.  "  Feel,  Tilly,  that  I 
can't  be  a  fashionable  doctor,  but  that  I  have  a  large 
practice,  a  number  of  patients  to  whom  I  am  of 
use." 


210  DR.  ADRIAAN 

*'  They  don't  pay  you." 

His  mouth  involuntarily  gave  a  twist  of  contempt. 

"  They  don't  pay  you,"  she  repeated.  "  You  are 
wearing  yourself  out  .    .    .   for  nothing." 

*'  Try  and  feel,  Tilly,  that  I  am  not  wearing 
myself  out  for  nothing  .  .  .  just  because  I  am  not 
making  money." 

"  Then  teach  me  to  feel  it." 

He  looked  at  her  in  despair. 

"  Teach  me !  "  she  entreated.  "  For  your  sake, 
because  I  love  you,  I  will  try  to  learn,  try  to 
feel   ...    I  love  you,  I  love  you,  Addie  I  " 

"  Dear,"  he  said,  gently,  "  I'll  do  my  best  .  .  . 
to  teach  you  to  feel  it.     Come  with  me." 

"Where?" 

**  There   ...   to  those  little  cottages." 

"Who  lives  in  them?" 

"  Poor  people  .  .  .  sick  people  .  .  .  whom  I 
attend." 

"  Addie   ...   no,  no   ...   no !    ... " 

"Why  not?" 

"  I'm  not  prepared  for  it.  .  .  .  You  know  I 
can't  stand  that.    ..." 

"  You're  a  healthy  woman ;  your  nerves  are 
strong:  come  with  me." 

She  went  with  him,  not  daring  to  refuse. 

"  Tilly,"  he  said,  gently,  as  they  walked  on  and 
approached  the  cottages,  "  I  will  try  to  have  under- 
standing for  both  of  us.  .  .  .  If  you  are  to  be 
happy  in  yourself  .  .  .  with  me  .  .  .  happy  the 
two  of  us    .    .    .   then   .    ;    . " 

"Well?" 

"  Then  you  must  learn  to  understand  me  .  .  . 
to  understand  me  very  deep  down,  as  I  am.  Then 
you  must  try  to  understand  ...  all  of  us;  to  love 
us  all:  my  father,  my  mother.  .  .  .  Tilly,  Tilly, 
can  you?   ..." 


DR.  ADRIAAN  211 

She  did  not  answer,  trembling,  frightened,  look- 
ing deeper  into  things,  after  all  that  he  had  said. 
Her  fine  eyes  gazed  at  him  despairingly,  like  those 
of  a  wounded  animal  in  its  pain.  She  could  have 
embraced  him  now,  just  ordinarily,  clasping  him 
warmly  and  firmly  to  herself.  But  he  led  her  on  as 
he  might  lead  a  child.  He  knocked,  opened  the 
little  door  and  led  her  in.  A  sultry  heat  of  mean 
poverty  struck  her  in  the  face  like  a  blow;  and  it 
was  nothing  but  misery,  wherever  he  took  her.  It 
seemed  to  her  as  if  she  herself  carried  that  misery 
with  her,  in  her  soul,  which  had  never  yet  thrilled 
as  it  did  now. 


CHAPTER  XX 

Oh,  he  was  to  blame,  he  was  to  blame,  he  was  to 
blame !  He  saw  suddenly,  in  a  sort  of  despair,  that 
the  only  answer  to  the  question  which  he  sometimes 
had  to  ask  in  vague,  black  self-insufficiency  was  the 
ajssenting  yes,  yes,  yes!  .  .  .  Because  he  had  not 
known  it  for  himself,  entirely  for  himself,  for  the 
two  personalities  which  he  so  clearly  felt  himself 
to  be,  he  was  to  blame,  because  he  loved  his  wife 
with  only  half  of  himself.  Was  she  to  blame  in 
any  way?  Was  she  not  what  she  always  had  been? 
No,  she  had  changed,  she  had  refined  herself,  as  if 
her  soul,  despite  the  antipathy  of  her  environment, 
had  yet  become  transformed  and  grown  more  like 
the  people  and  things  that  surrounded  her!  And 
it  was  his  fault:  he  had  brought  her  into  this 
environment,  in  which  no  sympathy  was  created  and 
which  had  given  her  nothing  beyond  a  refinement  of 
soul,  senses  and  nerves,  so  that  she  now  suffered 
through  that  which  he  had  always  thought  that  she 
would  never  perceive.  With  what  sudden  clearness, 
in  her  simplicity,  she  had  seen  it  all,  almost  uncon- 
sciously, and  was  now  flinging  it  at  his  feet!  He 
wrung  his  hands  and  felt  desperate  at  the  thought 
of  it  all.  Of  an  evening  now,  alone  in  his  study, 
in  the  soft  light  of  his  reading-lamp — the  table  with 
Guy's  books  and  maps  standing  in  one  corner — he 
would  walk  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  wringing 
his  hands,  glancing  deep  into  that  despair,  while  the 
self-insufficiency  was  no  longer  vague,  but  soul- 
torturing  in  self-dissatisfaction,  because  he  saw  him- 
self at  fault  in  that  great  action  of  his  life,  which 

2ia 


DR.  ADRIAAN  213 

was  still  so  very  young,  his  marriage:  at  fault 
towards  himself,  at  fault  towards  his  wife.  To  let 
her  marry  him,  because  she  was  healthy  and  simply 
normal,  with  that  idea  of  setting  an  example — see, 
that  is  what  we  ought  all  to  be ;  normal,  simple  and 
healthy — oh,  to  love  her,  yes,  but  to  love  with  only 
the  half  of  himself,  without  ever  giving  her  any- 
thing of  the  deep — things  of  the  soul,  things  which 
he  gave  to  all  with  whom  he  felt  a  soul-relationship, 
without  counting,  in  a  lavish  prodigality:  how  could 
he  have  done  it,  he  who  knew  things  for  others! 
More  clearly  than  ever  he  perceived  that  he  had 
never  known  them  for  himself;  and  he  clearly  per- 
ceived that  others,  his  father,  his  mother,  had 
suspected  that  he  did  not  know  for  himself,  that  he 
had  not  known  when  he  brought  Mathilde  to  them 
as  his  wife :  into  their  midst,  into  their  house.  And 
now,  in  his  emotion,  in  this  lonely  silent  contempla- 
tion, there  awakened  within  him  the  energy  to 
redress,  oh,  to  redress  if  possible :  to  redress  every- 
thing, everything  for  her !   .    .    . 

Now,  suddenly,  he  went  to  her  room,  where  she 
was  spending  a  moment  after  dinner,  before  tea  was 
brought  in,  where  he  often  found  her  when  he 
wished  to  be  alone  with  her  for  a  minute;  and  he 
found  her  r^ow.  She  was  sitting  Hstlessly  in  a  chair; 
and  the  room  was  dark:  the  children  were  already 
asleep  next  door.  He  lit  the  gas  and  looked  at  her 
with  all  the  energy  that  leapt  up  within  him  like 
springs,  the  energy  to  redress,  to  redress.  And, 
without  any  preamble,  he  said: 

*'  Tilly   .    .    .   we'll  go  to  the  Hague." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  she  asked,  in  surprise. 

"  We  shall  go  and  live  at  the  Hague.  I  shall  do 
what  you  suggest:  I  shall  look  for  a  practice  at  the 
Hague." 

She  had  him  to  herself  now,  for  the  first  time 


214  E)R-  ADRIAAN 

after  their  talk  that  afternoon,  and  suddenly,  sob- 
bing, she  threw  her  arms  around  him,  pressed  him 
to  her : 

"  Love  me !  "  she  implored. 

"  I  do  love  you.  ...  It  won't  do  for  us  to  stay 
here.  .  .  .  It's  better  that  you  should  be  quite  by 
yourself,  in  your  own  house,  your  own  mis- 
tress.   ..." 

*'  We've  talked  about  it  so  often !  "  she  sobbed. 

"  There  will  be  money  enough,  Tilly ;  I  shall  make 
money." 

"  You  said  five  thousand  guilders." 

**  No,  there  will  be  more.  Don't  be  afraid,  have 
no  care,  there  will  be  enough  .  .  .  and  you  can 
do  as  you  please.    I  promise,  I  promise." 

"  But  it's  a  sacrifice  for  you   ..." 

"  To  leave  the  house  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I'm  fond  of  the  house  .  .  .  but  it's  better 
that  we  should  go  to  the  Hague." 

*'  Your  parents   .    .    .   they  will  all  miss  you." 

"  Now  don't  make  difficulties,  Tilly." 

*' No,  Addie,  no   ..." 

*' How  do  you  mean,  no?  " 

*'  I  won't  go  to  the  Hague." 

"Why  not?" 

*'  It's  too  late.  ...  It  wouldn't  alter  a  thing. 
,    .    .   It's  too  late." 

"What's  too  late?" 

She  sobbed  and  embrace.d  him.  She  clutched  him 
to  her,  she  covered  his  lips  with  glowing  kisses. 

"  Oh,  let  it  be !  "  she  said,  in  between  her  kisses; 
and  her  voice  sounded  utterly  discouraged. 

"  Why,  Tilly?  Why?  I  want  to  see  you  happy. 
.  .  .  It's  decided  now :  we're  going  to  the  Hague. 
I'll  look  out  for  a  house." 

She  shook  her  head. 


UR.  ADRIAAN  215 

"  Tell  me,  Tilly :  why  do  you  refuse  ?  " 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders : 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said. 

"  You  love  me,  surely?  " 

"  I  love  you,  I  dote  on  you,  I'm  mad  on  you  I 
.  .  .  Let  us  stay  here  and  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  love 
me  a  little." 

"  But,  Tilly,  I  do  love  you.  You  know  I  love 
you  I" 

He  kissed  her,  very  tenderly;  and  she  accepted 
his  kisses,  with  her  eyes  closed,  and  lay  limply,  as 
though  tired,  in  his  arms.  Suddenly  she  thrust  him 
away: 

'*  Let  me  be,"  she  said,  rising  to  her  feet. 

"Tilly.    ..." 

"  Let  me  be   .    .    .   stop  kissing  me." 

"  Why  mayn't  I  kiss  you  ?   ..." 

"  I  don't  want  you  to." 

"  And  you  say  you  love  me  1  " 

"  Yes,  but   .    .    .   don't  kiss  me  any  more." 

He  looked  at  her  in  perplexity;  and  she  said: 

"  It's  not  only  kissing.    ..." 

"Tilly!"  he  said,  stretching  out  his  arms, 
"  Whatever  it  is,  we  shall  find  it  for  each  other 
...    .    .   with  each  other.   ..." 

"Yes.   ..." 

"You  think  so,  don't  you?" 

"  Yes." 

"  You  believe  it  ?  When  we  are  at  the  Hague 
,.    .    .    alone   ...   in  our  own  home  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  believe  it." 

"  And  will  you  then  be  happy?  " 

"  Yes   .    .    .   when  we  have  found  it." 

"  And  we  shall  find  it." 

"Yes." 

"  Come  and  sit  with  me,  in  my  study.  ...  I 
have  work  to  do:  come  and  sit  with  me.     I  sha'n't 


2i6  DR.  ADRIAAN 

go  downstairs  for  tea.  I  have  some  reading  to  do : 
come  with  me  .  .  .  and  stay  with  me  this  evening : 
will  you  ?  " 

"  Yes."  _ 

"  Then  it  will  be  as  if  we  were  already  at  home 
...  in  our  own  home  ...  at  the  Hague.  ..." 

She  went  with  him,  pale,  tired,  listless,  with  his 
arm  round  her  waist. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

Easter  was  at  hand;  spring  brought  a  new  balmi- 
ness  to  the  wind,  a  new  softness  to  the  rain,  a  new 
warmth  to  the  air,  which  hung  low  in  a  heavy  grey 
canopy;  and  much  had  changed  during  the  past  few 
weeks.  The  big  house,  full  though  it  was  with  all 
of  them,  seemed  very  quiet  now  that  Addie  and 
Mathilde  had  moved  to  the  Hague,  though  their 
rooms  were  always  kept  ready  for  them  because  Van 
der  Welcke  had  said  that  Addie  must  always  have 
his  rooms  ready  for  him  whenever  he  chose  to  come 
home,  though  it  were  only  for  a  day.  And  so  the 
bedrooms  and  the  nursery  always  remained  in  mute 
expectation,  with  silent  furniture  and  closed  doors; 
and  only  in  Addie's  big  study,  one  of  the  best  rooms 
of  the  house,  formerly  the  old  man's  library,  Guy 
now  sat  and  worked  at  the  window.  And  it  was  as 
though,  in  spite  of  the  restfulness  induced  by 
Mathilde's  absence,  they  were  all  gloomy  because 
Addie  was  gone,  as  if  they  had  all  lost  him.  True, 
he  came  regularly,  twice  a  week  in  fact,  especially 
because  of  Marietje — Mary;  but  even  then  he  had 
so  much  to  do  outside  that  they  scarcely  saw  him 
except  at  meals.  And  it  was  as  if  they  could  all 
have  put  up  with  Mathilde,  rather  than  lose  Addle. 
Klaasje  no  longer  pushed  her  chair  away,  Gerdy 
no  longer  spilt  the  milk,  at  evening  tea — those  small, 
almost  ridiculous  vexations  with  which  Constance 
had  had  to  put  up  so  often — as  soon  as  Mathilde 
entered ;  but,  now  that  all  vexation  was  gone,  Addie 
also  was  gone  and  seemed  lost  for  all  time.  And 
they  lived  on  in  a  sort  of  grey  harmony,  still  and 

217 


2i8  DR.  ADRIAAN 

peaceful  but  now,  regularly,  without  many  words, 
in  a  dull  resignation  which  mourned  in  all  their 
eyes  and  voices,  while  Gerdy  now  silently,  silently 
pined  and  pined;  and  it  was  only  Guy  and  Van  der 
Welcke  who,  once  in  a  way,  indulged  in  loud  and 
forced  merriment.  Paul  also  had  his  melancholy 
days:  sometimes  he  would  not  put  in  an  appearance 
for  a  week,  said  that  he  was  ill,  remained  in  his 
rooms,  lying  on  a  sofa  with  a  book  in  his  hands, 
not  thinking  it  worth  while  to  talk  brilliantly  or  to 
play  the  piano.  But  they  looked  him  up,  Constance, 
Brauws,  the  girls;  they  drove  him  out  of  his  rooms 
and  out  of  his  mood  of  depression;  and  he  returned, 
like  a  victim,  grumbled  that  Gerdy's  piano  was 
always  dirty,  asked  for  a  duster,  scrubbed  the  keys 
and  submissively  played  Grieg,  the  melodies  dripping 
slackly  from  his  fingers.  And,  though  everything 
was  grey,  in  the  somewhat  sultry  spring  air,  still  it 
was  strangely  happy  with  a  harmony  felt  in  silence, 
a  family  concord,  which  sometimes  brought  the  tears 
to  Constance'  eyes  when  she  sat  talking  to  Brauws  in 
the  twilight  upstairs  in  her  own  sitting-room,  in 
whispered  interchange  of  quick  half-words,  which 
at  once  understood  one  another.  Then,  when  Addie 
arrived,  he  brought  with  him  a  certain  gleam,  a 
light,  a  sudden  glory;  and  yet  his  eyes  too  were  full 
of  sombre  greyness,  but  they  were  all  so  glad  to 
see  him  that  they  saw  only  glory  in  them.  He  was 
happy  at  the  Hague,  he  said.  He  had  a  good 
practice,  everything  was  going  well.  Mathilde  was 
very  cheerful;  the  children  were  well.  He  asked 
them  all  to  come  down  sometime,  for,  though  they 
had  all  been  once,  to  see  the  house,  they  did  not 
come  again,  withdrawing  themselves  from  him  as  it 
were  .  .  .  He  saw  it  and  was  hurt  by  it;  his  eyes 
seemed  to  roam  through  the  dear  brown  rooms,  as 
if  this  big  house  remained  his  house;  and,  when 


DR.  ADRIAAN  219 

Constance  embraced  him,  she  felt  in  her  son's  heart 
a  difficult  struggle  and  a  swelling  of  great  sorrow. 
He  never  spoke  of  it;  he  hypnotized  Marietje;  he 
regularly  kept  up  Klaasje's  reading-lessons  and  the 
books  with  the  coloured  letters  gleamed  into  the 
child's  awakening  imagination;  he  talked,  on  Sat- 
urdays, at  great  length  with  Alex  or  sat  with  old 
Grandmamma  and  always  thought  of  something  to 
say  to  her  that  made  her  nod  her  head  with  soft, 
smiling  satisfaction;  he  found  a  moment  for  his 
father,  for  his  mother,  for  all  of  them :  also  for  the 
poor  sick  people  on  the  silent  country  roads;  once 
he  interested  himself  in  an  old  sick  horse  which 
caused  Marietje — Mary — great  sorrow,  when  she 
saw  it  tortured,  and  bought  it  for  her  and  let  it  run 
about,  for  her  sake,  in  a  meadow  belonging  to  a 
farmer  whom  they  knew.  And  his  regular  visits 
were  what  they  all  looked  forward  to,  once  a  week, 
as  to  a  delightful  day;  and  the  other  days  dragged 
on,  in  grey  harmony,  amid  the  quiet  family  life,  in 
which  they  all  recognized  the  same  loss  in  one 
another. 

Easter  arrived;  and  the  three,  Constant,  Jan  and 
Piet,  came  home  for  the  holidays.  And  it  was  one 
great  emotion,  not  only  for  Adeline,  but  also  for 
Constance  and  also  for  Addie,  when  he  came  down, 
an  emotion  which  bound  them  still  more  closely  to- 
gether, an  emotion  aroused  by  the  future  of  all 
those  boys,  an  emotion  felt  over  the  examinations 
which  they  had  passed  or  were  about  to  pass.  Con- 
stant, now  seventeen,  was  to  be  transferred  this  year 
from  the  Secondary  School  at  the  Hague  to  the 
School  of  Agriculture  at  Wageningen;  Jan,  now 
fifteen,  was  still  at  a  boarding-school  at  Barneveld, 
preparing  to  go  up  for  his  naval  examination  next 
year;  Piet,  now  fourteen,  was  at  the  Hague,  at  the 
Secondary  School,  with  a  view  to  the  Polytechnic. 


220  DR.  ADRIAAN 

At  the  Hague,  Constant  and  Piet  lived  with  a  tutor; 
and  Addie  was  almost  glad  that  he  himself  was  now 
living  at  the  Hague  and  seeing  more  of  the  boys, 
for  the  tutor  was  not  satisfied:  the  boys  did  their 
lessons  badly,  not  because  they  were  unwilling,  but 
because  they  had  no  head  for  books,  for  working, 
for  studying,  any  more  than  Alex,  any  more  than 
Guy.  The  three  yellow-haired  younger  ones  were 
even  worse  feather-heads  than  their  two  elders: 
Constant  was  something  of  a  dreamer,  Jan  the  most 
solid,  Piet  the  cleverest  of  the  three,  but  none  of 
them  workers.  They  all  displayed  the  same  in- 
capacity for  perseverance,  with  the  different  shades 
of  their  different  characters:  Alex,  true,  doing  his 
best  for  Addie's  sake  at  the  Merchants'  School  at 
Amsterdam,  but  full  of  a  secret  dread  of  life,  struck 
as  a  child  with  that  dread  since,  staring  through 
open  doors,  he  had  seen  his  father's  dead  body,  in 
that  single  moment  of  horror  and  blood;  Guy, 
kindly,  genial,  merry  and  light-hearted;  Constant, 
inwardly  sombre,  morose,  with  a  strange  deep  look 
of  suspicion  in  his  eyes;  Jan,  a  boy  for  games;  and 
Piet — the  youngest  except  Klaasje — no  doubt  the 
most  enlightened  intellectually,  but  delicate,  shy, 
girlish  and  reminding  Constance  most  of  the  flaxen 
dolls  of  the  old  days :  the  merry,  careless  children, 
romping  round  the  dining-room  in  the  Bankastraat, 
while  Gerrit,  in  his  uniform  and  riding-boots,  stood 
tall  and  wide-legged  in  the  midst  of  their  fun.  And 
now,  now  the  boys  were  no  longer  careless:  it  was 
their  reports,  it  was  their  careers  opening  yonder 
in  the  future  that  as  it  were  compelled  them  to 
think  of  serious  things;  and  it  was  as  though  they 
none  of  them  developed  with  the  blossoming  of 
their  years,  as  though  they,  Alex,  Guy,  Constant  and 
Jan,  remained  feeble,  light-hearted,  sombre  and 
rough  and  Piet  so  shy  and  delicate,  while  cruel  life 


DR.  ADRIAAN  221 

opened  out  before  them,  society,  in  which  they  had 
to  conquer  a  place  for  themselves,  when  none  of 
them  could  persevere  in  the  youthful  studies  which 
prepared  their  future.  It  was  a  great  source  of 
anxiety  for  Addie ;  and,  if  the  boys  had  not  all  been 
so  fond  of  him,  the  anxiety  would  have  been  greater 
than  he  could  cope  with.  Was  it  not  he  who  had 
really  chosen  their  career  for  them,  because  they 
did  not  know,  because  they  had  no  preference,  all  of 
them  perhaps  shuddering  with  dread  of  having  to 
take  their  place  in  human  society,  such  as  Alex  felt 
it  most  deeply  in  the  melancholy  of  his  dejection, 
as  though  their  father's  suicide,  of  which  they  all 
knew,  had  cast  a  shadow  over  all  of  them,  a  twilight 
over  their  childish  souls?  And  Addie,  like  an  elder 
brother,  like  a  young  father,  had  had,  in  consulting 
them,  to  choose  for  them,  had  had  to  discuss  the 
matter  with  them  at  length.  The  Indian  Civil 
Service  appealed  to  none  of  them;  Addie  thought 
that  not  any  of  them  had  the  brains  for  college; 
and  so  it  was  decided:  Alex,  army  training-college, 
but  that  had  not  been  a  success  and  he  was  doing 
better  now  at  the  Commercial  School ;  Guy,  the  Post 
Office;  Constant,  Wageningen;  Jan,  the  Navy;  and 
Piet,  in  whom  Addie  saw  the  brightest  intelligence 
of  all,  he  had  stimulated  to  enter  for  the  Poly- 
technic. But  it  was  not  only  Alex:  Guy  also  was 
a  source  of  trouble  to  him,  plodding  with  gloomy 
resignation  at  his  maps  and  books;  Constant,  sombre 
and  morose,  was  doing  his  best;  but  the  competitive 
examinations  for  Willemsoord  might  prove  very  dif- 
ficult, Addie  thought,  for  Jan  later ;  while  Piet  .  .  . 
But  the  boy  was  still  a  child,  clinging  so  dependently 
to  Addie,  with  his  rather  girlish  affection,  with  his 
shyness,  which  placed  confidence  in  Addie  only. 
.  .  .  Yes,  thought  Constance,  now  that  she  saw 
them  all  together,  they  would  long  be  a  great  trouble, 


222  DR.  ADRIAAN 

they  would  still  be  a  great  burden  to  Addie;  and 
Adeline,  poor  Adeline  could  never  unaided  have 
made  men  of  her  boys. 

It  was  Easter;  and  it  was  strange  how  much  at 
home  they  all  were  in  the  big  house  at  Driebergen, 
which  they  regarded  as  their  paternal  house,  re- 
garding Uncle  Henri  and  Aunt  Constance  next  to 
their  mother  as  parents  also,  regarding  Addie  as  an 
elder  brother,  as  their  youngest  father,  on  whom 
everything  really  depended.  No  one  ever  opposed 
this  view ;  and  in  everything,  down  to  the  least  thing, 
it  was  quite  natural  for  them  to  say: 

"  I'll  ask  Addie."  ^  ^ 

They  thought  their  cousin  much  older  in  spirit 
than  in  years  and  all  looked  up  to  him  naturally 
and  with  unquestioning  confidence,  as  though  he 
must  know  things,  as  though  he  would  be  sure  to 
make  life  smooth  for  them,  that  future  of  career 
beside  career  which  opened  before  them  like  a 
battlefield.  However  much  they  might  differ  in 
character,  in  this  they  felt  alike,  quite  naturally,  as 
though  they  could  not  do  otherwise;  and,  when  a 
stranger  sometimes  expressed  surprise  that  Addie 
fathered  them  so,  their  eyes  would  glance  up  in 
astonishment,  as  though  to  ask: 

"What  do  you  expect?  Of  course,  Addie  does 
everything  for  us !  " 

And  they  were  very  grateful,  almost  uncon- 
sciously, to  Uncle  Henri,  who  paid  the  bills,  to  Aunt 
Constance,  who  took  care  of  them  in  so  many  ways, 
to  Addie,  who  would  make  life  smooth  for  them; 
but  still  they  thought  it  very  natural,  because  it  had 
always  been  like  that,  for  the  girls  too:  Marietje, 
Adeletje,  Gerdy  and  Klaasje.  There  it  was :  Uncle, 
Aunt  and  Addie  looked  after  them,  because  Mamma 
was  so  sad  and  not  very  capable  and  devoid  of 
energy.     They  had  been  used  to  it  ever  since  they 


DR.  ADRIAAN  223 

were  very  young  and  small;  and  it  was  like  that; 
and  it  could  never  have  been  different. 

Now,  when  he  came  down  from  the  Hague,  Addie 
talked  to  all  of  them  seriously;  and  they  listened 
with  serious  faces,  looking  up  at  him,  accepting  what 
he  said,  promising  to  work  better  in  future,  to  show 
better  reports  next  time,  to  give  him  more  reason 
for  content  in  all  respects.  .  .  .  Then  he  would 
shake  hands  with  them;  and  that  handshake  con- 
veyed a  promise  which  they  would  be  glad  to  keep, 
to  please  Addie,  because  Addie,  after  all,  was 
bearing  the  entire  responsibility  for  their  lives  and 
their  futures.  They  left  it  all  to  him,  but  they 
began  to  see  more  and  more  clearly  that  they  must 
make  it  easier  for  him.  He  spoke  to  Piet  in  par- 
ticular : 

"  Mr.  Veghel's  not  satisfied,  Piet." 

This  was  the  tutor  with  whom  Constant  and  Piet 
boarded. 

The  boy  blushed,  with  a  quick  flow  of  colour  to  his 
round,  girlish  cheeks;  his  eyes  glanced  up  shyly  and 
timidly. 

"  You  must  work  harder,  Piet :  you  can  when  you 
like;  and  therefore,  if  you  don't,  you  can't  possibly 
go  to  Delft.  .  .  .  And  you're  cut  out  for  a  civil 
engineer.  That's  what  you  want  to  be,  isn't 
it?" 

"  Yes,  Addie." 

"  Well,  see  that  you  get  your  remove  before  the 
summer  holidays.  You  won't  get  your  remove,  Piet, 
if  you  go  on  like  this," 

"  I'll  do  my  best,  Addie." 

Then  the  boy  became  very  restless,  because 
Addie  was  not  satisfied;  and  inwardly  he  wished 
that  Addie  did  not  see  him  so  clearly,  so  clever  and 
capable  if  only  he  liked;  and  Piet  thought  the 
Polytechnic  a  very  difficult  affair : 


224  I>R-  ADRIAAN 

"  It'll  never  come  off,"  he  thought,  in  his  secret 
heart. 

But  he  did  not  say  so,  because,  in  spite  of  himself, 
he  hoped  that  it  would,  if  only  because  Addie 
wanted  it  to  and  because  it  was  such  a  long  way 
off,  the  Polytechnic,  and  because  Addie  lately  had 
worn  such  a  wrinkle  in  his  forehead,  as  though  he 
were  disappointed   .    .    .   possibly  in  him. 

"  We're  a  great  trouble  to  you,  Addie,  what?  " 

"  If  only  you  work  hard,  Piet  .  .  .  then  it 
won't  be  such  a  trouble  and  things  will  look  after 
themselves." 

But  Piet  was  not  the  only  one  to  see  it:  they  all 
saw  it,  the  boys  and  girls  alike,  and  wondered  if  it 
was  because  of  them  only  or  because  of  something 
quite  different — himself,  or  Mathilde — that  his  fore- 
head wrinkled  so  and  his  grey  eyes  grew  so 
sombre.   ... 


CHAPTER  XXII 

At  the  Hague,  Mathilde  felt  a  certain  gratification, 
a  satisfaction;  and  the  bustle  of  the  early  weeks 
gave  her  a  pleasant  feeling  of  excitement  and  made 
her  forget  the  despairing  thoughts  of  the  last  few 
weeks  spent  at  Driebergen.  They  had  an  attractive 
little  new  house  in  a  side-street  off  the  Bezuidenhout 
itself.  It  was  freshly  painted,  bright  in  colouring; 
and  she  found  it  delightful  to  be  able  to  furnish  the 
house,  now  that  summer  was  approaching,  with 
light,  modern  furniture  which  looked  and  suggested 
a  doll's  house,  with  the  small  rooms  and  the 
abundance  of  light-coloured  muslin  in  the  drawing- 
room  and  conservatory,  which  she  thought  looked 
nice  and  cheerful.  The  first  spring  light  entered 
hard  and  shrill;  and  the  new  colours  of  the  wall- 
papers showed  up  in  J:he  first  sunny  days,  crying  out 
at  Addie  when  he  returned  from  his  visits  in  his 
smart  little  brougham.  And  she  displayed  a  certain 
solicitude  that  above  all  he  should  be  nicely  dressed, 
that  he  should  look  very  well-groomed :  she  insisted 
on  his  ordering  a  couple  of  new  suits.  He  had  not 
a  large  practice  yet,  but  that  was  sure  to  come :  she 
was  full  of  hope.  In  the  afternoons,  she  would  go 
out,  rejoicing  in  the  shopping-streets,  in  all  the 
errands  which  she  had  to  do,  in  the  old  acquaintances 
whom  she  met,  people  whom  she  had  known  in  her 
parents'  house — they  were  both  dead  now — and  oc- 
cupying a  somewhat  lower  social  scale  than  her  own 
at  present.  And  she  loved  especially  to  show  herself 
to  her  relations — a  few  uncles  and  aunts  and  cousins 
in  her  elaborate   new  dresses:   Baroness   van  der 

225 


226  DR.  ADRIAAN 

Welcke.  .  .  .  And,  in  her  gratification,  in  her 
satisfaction,  in  her  new  environment,  created  by 
herself  in  sympathy  with  her  commonplace  illusions, 
it  was  as  though  she  had  suddenly  wiped  all  Drie- 
bergen  out  of  her  life,  as  though  they  had  never 
existed,  the  nearly  three  crowded  early  years  of  her 
marriage  yonder,  in  the  melancholy,  rainy  village, 
in  the  sombre  house,  the  haunted  house  full  of 
lunatics  and  invalids.  A  newness,  fresh  and  com- 
monplace as  the  paint  of  her  house,  reigned  all 
around  her;  she  inhaled  newness  and  was  grateful 
to  Addie ;  but  that  which,  despite  herself,  had  begun 
to  grow  refined  in  her,  through  her  intercourse  with 
antagonistic  but  yet  finer  natures  than  her  own,  now 
became  blunted  at  once;  and  the  days  of  real  misery 
which  she  had  undergone  now,  in  her  superficial 
thoughts,  seemed  very  far  away,  as  though  they 
had  been  never  lived  but  only  dreamed,  as  read 
in  a  book,  but  never  felt.  The  feeling  had  not 
burst  forth  from  her,  like  a  plant  that  buds,  but  had 
moved  slowly  around  her,  like  a  wind  that  blows 
or  a  drifting  cloud.  It  had  moved  her,  but  had 
not  metamorphosed  her.  Now,  in  her  own  at- 
mosphere, she  was  blossoming  up,  fully,  like  a 
flower  transplanted  to  the  earth  which  it  needed  in 
order  to  blossom  entirely. 

And  yet,  though  she  recovered  herself,  she  was 
not  quite  herself  again.  Even  though  she  no  longer 
craved  to  know  and  to  receive  that  which  escaped 
her  in  Addie,  yet  she  continued  to  know  that  some- 
thing in  him  did  escape  her;  and,  however  eagerly, 
in  her  simple  entreaty,  she  had  begged  that  he  would 
love  her,  now,  even  though  she  uttered  the  same 
request,  almost  with  a  childish  plaint — "  Addie,  you 
do  love  me,  don't  you  ?  " — she  had  to  admit  to 
herself  that  she  now  saw  him  really  very  far  above 
herself,  not  only  in  that  which  escaped  her,  but  also 


DR.  ADRIAAN  227 

in  that  which  she  understood:  the  daily  sacrifice 
which  he  was  making  by  living  at  the  Hague,  by 
acting  as  she  had  asked,  seeking  to  establish  a  prac- 
tice as  she  wished,  by  shifting  the  tenor  of  his  life, 
as  with  a  strong  grip  of  the  hand,  in  the  direction 
which  would  make  her  happy,  her,  the  woman  who 
no  longer  loved  him  as  she  had  done  ...  as  she 
had  done  when  she  felt  him  akin  to  herself,  in  the 
healthy  normal  life  of  physical  natures.  ,  .  .  He 
was  that  still,  but  he  was  also  different;  and  that 
different  thing  was  not  akin  to  her,  nor  was  the 
superiority  with  which  he  sacrificed  himself.  The 
superiority,  the  sacrifice  oppressed  her.  .  .  .  She 
soon  forgot;  and,  when  she  was  out  of  doors,  going 
along  the  shops,  meeting  acquaintances  who  ad- 
mired her,  she  was  happy.  When  she  came  home, 
waiting  with  her  two  children  for  Addie's  return, 
she  suddenly  felt  oppressed : 

"  I  grew  melancholy  at  Driebergen,"  she  would 
think. 

But  now  she  was  in  her  new,  freshly-painted 
house;  and  she  was  oppressed  and  felt  unattractive; 
she  dragged  with  her  something  that  she  could  not 
shake  off.  She  often  wept,  sobbed,  as  at  Drie- 
bergen, but  there,  she  knew,  it  was  only  about 
Marietje  van  Saetzema,  whereas  here  she  did  not 
know  what  she  was  sobbing  for.  ...  At  meals, 
sitting  with  him  alone,  she  was  silent,  or  else  spoke 
harshly,  without  intending  to.  She  did  not  sit  with 
him  when  he  was  working,  though  he  asked  her  to. 
When  he  wanted  to  kiss  her,  she  drew  back.  At 
night  she  often  locked  herself  in,  pretended  to  be 
asleep.  .  .  .  Only  in  the  children  did  she  feel  in 
harmony  with  him,  did  she  agree  with  him,  with  his 
system  of  feeding  them,  of  sending  them  out  every 
day  in  all  weathers.  The  children  united  them,  now 
and  then,   for   a   few   moments.   .    .    .   When   the 


228  DR.  ADRIAAN 

children  were  in  bed,  their  life  together  became 
strangely  unreal,  as  though  both  were  asking  them- 
selves why,  why?  And  it  grew  worse  daily.  He 
was  now  living  exactly  as  she  wished;  and  it  seemed 
to  him  as  if  he  had  no  life  of  his  own.  The 
keeping  up  of  his  reading,  in  the  evenings,  became 
mechanical;  and  mechanically  he  went  once,  some- 
times twice,  a  week  to  Driebergen,  remaining  there 
for  half  the  day.  They  saw  him  looking  strange, 
unsettled,  old,  with  wrinkles  in  his  forehead  and  a 
gloom  of  despair  in  his  eyes. 

"  My  dear  old  chap,"  Van  der  Welcke  said,  one 
day,  "  I  can  see  that  things  are  not  going  well  with 
you.  Do  you  remember  how  your  father,  not  so 
very  long  ago,  with  the  only  bit  of  wisdom  that  ever 
fell  to  his  share,  advised  you  to  seek  your  own  life 
for  yourself?  .  .  .  You're  seeking  it  less  and  less 
.  .  .  for  yourself.  Things  are  not  well  with  you 
down  there   ...   at  the  Hague." 

"  Father,  I  have  so  little  right  to  seek  my  own 
life  for  myself." 

"  And  yet  we  all  do  it." 

"  There  was  a  time,  once,  when  you  didn't.  You 
then  gave  up  your  life  for  me." 

"  I  did  that  quite  naturally.  I  don't  know  what's 
happening  inside  you  .  .  .  but  it  looks  to  me  as  if 
you  were  forcing  yourself.  Here  you're  at  home, 
here  you  feel  a  man :  you  love  this  house,  you  love 
the  work  you  used  to  do  here   ..." 

"  I  don't  belong  to  myself  any  more." 

"  You  never  did  belong  to  yourself.  As  a  child, 
you  belonged  to  your  silly  parents  .  .  .  who  got 
the  better  of  you  entirely;  and  now  you  belong  to 
your  wife.    I  expect  it's  your  fate." 

"If  it  has  to  be   .    .    ." 

"  I  should  so  much  like  to  see  you  happy,  Addie. 
Bless  my  soul,  old  chap,  we  should  all  like  to  see 


DR.  ADRIAAN  229 

it.  We're  all  suffering  on  your  account.  Your  poor 
mother's  suffering." 

"  Does  she  talk  about  it  to  you?  " 

"  No,  we  never  talk  much  together,  as  you  know, 
but  still   ..." 

"  Do  you  understand  each  other  better?  " 

"  No,  but  that's  not  the  question.  The  question 
at  this  moment  is  your  happiness.   ..." 

"  Father,  I  am  not  unhappy.  Things  are  really 
all  right  with  me." 

"  You've  got  that  cold,  distant  voice,  my  boy, 
which  I  know  so  well  in  you,  which  you  put  on  when 
you're  hidmg  yourself  and  not  facing  things.  I  never 
mistake  it." 

Van  der  Welcke  got  up,  walked  restlessly  across 
the  room,  all  blue  with  smoke,  walked  back  again 
and  suddenly  stopped  in  front  of  Addie  and  took  his 
son's  head  in  his  two  hands : 

"  My  boy,  why  was  it  necessary  that  your  fate 
should  be  the  same  as  your  father's,  an  unhappy 
marriage?  " 

"Father   .    .    ." 

"  Don't  deny  it.  Why  should  you  ?  Aren't  we 
two  friends  who  have  always  known  all  about  each 
other?  As  a  child,  you  were  my  friend.  We  were 
always  like  brothers.  Why  must  your  fate  be  the 
same  as  your  father's,  an  unhappy  marriage? 
You,  who  are  so  clever  where  others  are  con- 
cerned.  ..." 

Addie  suddenly  clutched  hold  of  his  father.  Van 
der  Welcke  continued : 

"  Why  must  you  always  know  so  little  that  will 
help  yourself?  ...  At  the  time,  I  raised  no  ob- 
jection. You  were  fond  of  the  woman;  you  always 
knew  your  mind  with  such  certainty;  I  thought  that 
you  knew  things  for  yourself;  I  let  you  have  your 
way.    I  was  jealous  because  you  were  getting  mar- 


230  DR.  ADRIAAN 

ried;  so  was  your  mother;  we  should  have  been 
jealous  of  any  woman.  We  didn't  like  the  girl  you 
brought  us;  we  thought, '  It's  our  jealousy  that  makes 
us  not  like  her.  She's  Addie's  wife;  she's  taking 
our  boy  from  us.'  We  had  no  right  to  think  like 
that.  We  tried  to  stifle  our  jealousy.  We  received 
Mathilde,  hoping,  almost  knowing  for  certain,  that 
you  were  finding  your  own  happiness  in  her,  because 
you  always  knew  your  mind.  .  .  .  You  didn't 
know  it  in  your  own  case.  .  .  .  You  knew  every- 
thing so  positively  in  ours.  .  .  .  You  also  knew 
so  positively,  so  plainly,  that  the  profession  which 
I  tried  to  urge  upon  you  was  not  the  thing  for  you : 
you  found  your  own  vocation.  You  were  a  small 
boy;  and  you  know  it  all  so  clearly  and  positively. 
.  .  .  When  you  grew  up  and  became  a  man,  you 
no  longer  knew  things.  Isn't  that  so?  .  .  .  Why 
should  your  fate  be  the  same  as  your  father's?  I 
was  a  ne'er-do-well,  when  I  made  my  mistake;  you 
were  a  calm,  serious  man.    ..." 

It  was  as  if  his  father  were  depriving  Addie  of 
all  his  strength,  but  he  merely  said,  in  his  almost 
cool,  even,  restrained  tones : 

"  Dear  Father,  really  .  .  .  things  are  all  right 
between  Mathilde  and  me.  Even  Mamma  under- 
stood, in  the  end,  that  she  did  not  feel  happy  here, 
at  home;  and  Mamma  agreed  that  she  would  feel 
more  at  home  and  happier  in  her  own  house,  how- 
ever small.   ..." 

"But  I'm  not  speaking  of  Mathilde's  happiness, 
I'm  speaking  of  yours.    ..." 

"  That  goes  with  it,  that  must  go  with  it. 
Father.   ..." 

And  so  it  always  remained :  he  spoke  out  no  more 
than  that,  gave  no  more  of  himself  than  that  and 
was  outwardly  almost  cold  with  chill  shuddering  and 
repellant  when  spoken  to  about  himself.    That  he 


DR.  ADRIAAN  231 

had  made  a  mistake,  that  he  had  not  known  things 
for  himself  he  clearly  perceived;  but  all  his  efforts 
were  directed  towards  the  attempt  to  repair  what 
he  had  managed,  through  his  ignorance  where  him- 
self was  concerned,  to  spoil  or  destroy  in  his  wife's 
life. 

Because  he  knew  that  she  soon  forgot  things,  he 
thought  that  he  would  succeed,  if  he  devoted  himself 
to  her  entirely,  if  he  lived  with  a  view  to  her  hap- 
piness and  ceased  to  live  with  a  view  to  his  own 
higher  instincts,  his  own  sympathies,  his  own  voca- 
tion and  activities.  And,  even  if  she  did  not  forget 
everything  at  once,  he  would  hope  that,  if  he  per- 
sisted, she  would  end  by  forgetting  entirely. 

On  days  when  she  was  bright  and  cheerful,  he 
was  satisfied,  in  silence  and  with  a  certain  inward 
sombreness,  because  things  were  going  as  he  was 
compelling  them  to  go.  On  days  when  she  was 
snappish  and  locked  herself  into  her  room  and  was 
evidently  unhappy  and  no  longer  knew  how  to  ex- 
plain her  melancholy,  he  suddenly  saw  his  young 
life  before  him  as  a  dismal  ruin,  as  a  desolate  block 
of  masonry  in  a  dark  night,  as  a  desperate  climbing 
and  climbing  in  the  dusk,  with  no  goal  of  light 
ahead.  Then  he  would  look  at  his  young,  crowing 
children  and  wonder  whether  one  day — and  that 
perhaps  soon — they  would  comfort  him  and  her, 
their  parents,  even  as  he  had  comforted  his.  He 
did  his  work  listlessly,  visited  his  patients  listlessly, 
even  though  no  one  ever  noticed  anything  in  him. 
He  would  ride  through  the  streets  of  the  Hague  in 
his  smart  little  brougham;  and  his  eyes  looked  dully 
before  them  and  he  longed  for  his  bicycle  and  the 
Driebergen  roads,  the  silent,  gloomy  roads,  sodden 
with  rain  and  weighed  down  under  by  the  heavy 
skies  where  his  sick  poor  awaited  him  in  their  mean 
little  dwellings,  in  vain,  seeing  him  only  for  a  single 


232  DR.  ADRIAAN 

moment  once  a  week.  He  was  filled  with  bitterness : 
with  a  listless  sneer  at  himself  he  reflected  that  he 
might  just  as  well  have  satisfied  his  parents'  wishes 
and  Grandmamma's  wishes,  in  the  old  days,  and 
become  a  diplomatist.  It  would  have  been  nearly 
the  same  as  what  he  was  doing  now :  putting  himself 
forward  as  a  young  fashionable  doctor  who  prac- 
tised hypnotism  and  who  was  sought  after,  especially 
by  the  ladies,  because  he  was  good-looking  and  a 
baron. 

He  sank  into  deeper  and  deeper  dejection  and 
felt  roused  only  for  a  moment  when  treating  a 
serious  patient. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

And  Mathilde's  healthy  mental  balance  was  dis- 
turbed. This  young  and  healthy  woman,  with 
her  rather  vulgar  aspirations,  had  fallen  in 
love  with  him  because  her  nature  expected  to 
achieve  a  sympathetic  satisfaction  through  his 
both  in  body  and  soul;  her  love  had  faltered 
when  she  gradually  perceived  that  she  was 
sharing  him  with  so  many  who  seemed  to  under- 
stand him  better,  when  she  suddenly  saw,  in 
a  refinement  of  her  inner  perception,  that  he  was 
really  escaping  her.  She  had  enough  common-sense 
to  understand  and  to  appreciate  that  he  wanted  her 
happiness  above  all  things,  that  he  was  now  devoting 
himself  to  her  entirely,  that  he  had  forced  their 
present  life  at  the  Hague  into  a  direction  which  was 
hers,  not  his.  Because  of  this,  she  was  filled  with 
a  surprised  gratitude;  and  yet  this  gratitude  de- 
pressed her.  The  years  spent  at  Driebergen  amidst 
her  husband's  family  had  subdued  her  to  a  mere 
nervous  susceptibility;  and  now  she  sought  and  wept 
again  and  did  not  know  what  she  sought  nor  why 
she  wept.  Fits  of  temper  followed  on  fits  of  weak- 
ness and  fits  of  discouragement.  In  the  question 
which  she  no  longer  put  to  Addie,  but  which  never- 
theless constantly  arose  in  her  heart — the  question 
whether  he  really  loved  her — lay  hidden  a  second 
question,  whether  she  really  loved  him.  At  such 
times  she  thought  that,  even  though  her  love  was 
diminished,  they  would  still  be  happy,  now,  at  the 
Hague,  and  make  her  life  a  simple  life,  the  after- 
math  of  physical  love.     But   she   saw   him   grow 

233 


234  DR-  ADRIAAN 

moodier  despite  himself,  despite  all  his  efforts.  She 
passed  through  hours  of  despair;  and,  if  she  had 
not  had  her  children,  she  would  have  gone  away 
somewhere,  she  knew  not  where. 

Her  healthy  mental  balance  was  disturbed.  She 
now  thought  that  it  would  be  a  good  thing  to  tell 
Addie  that  she  did  not  wish  to  stay  at  the  Hague 
like  this,  because  he  was  not  happy  there,  that  she 
wanted  to  go  back  to  Driebergen.  And  the  idea 
of  giving  back  to  him  what  he  was  giving  her,  of 
sacrificing  herself  as  he  was  sacrificing  himself,  gave 
her  an  internal  glow  of  exhilaration,  as  though  she 
had  found  a  solution;  a  solution  in  the  near  future, 
in  a  week  or  two,  a  month  or  two.  Yes,  let  her 
tell  him  that  it  would  be  better,  after  all,  to  go  back 
to  Driebergen.  The  rooms  there  were  always  ready 
for  them.  They  would  all  be  glad  to  see  him  back 
again.  She  would  give  him  back  to  his  family.  But 
she    .    .    . 

She  pictured  herself  once  more  in  the  repellant 
life  which  she  had  led  there.  And  she  would  not, 
she  could  not  suggest  it  to  him.  Then  days  would 
follow  when  she  avoided  him,  when  she  hardly  saw 
him  at  meals.  Sometimes,  for  a  few  moments,  they 
would  play  with  the  children,  for  there  was  some- 
thing really  attractive  about  the  fair-haired  little 
mites,  pretty  children  both,  Constant  and  Jetje, 
healthy  children,  such  as  Addie  had  wanted.  When 
they  were  put  to  bed,  she  would  go  out  in  the 
evening  by  herself,  to  take  tea  with  relations  or 
friends.  She  did  not  ask  him  to  go  with  her:  he 
had  his  work  to  do ;  and  she  came  back  in  a  cab. 

There  was  a  void  in  her  life;  and  she  tried  to 
argue  sensibly  with  herself,  and  to  make  light  of 
things.  Come,  there  were  hundreds  of  women  in 
her  position,  not  so  very  happy  with  their  husbands : 
really,  happy  marriages  were  rare;  and  people  still 


DR.  ADRIAAN  235 

managed  to  get  on  all  right.  .  .  .  There  were  the 
children;  and  she  was  very  fond  of  them.  .  .  . 
Perhaps  later,  when  they  were  a  little  older,  things 
would  be  better:  Addie  might  become  reconciled  to 
his  position  as  one  of  the  most  fashionable  doctors 
of  the  day;  she  also  might  recover  her  calmness,  her 
balance.  .  .  .  Life  was  so  insipid :  getting  up, 
dressing,  ordering  meals,  paying  visits,  shopping. 
Only  the  children,  still  so  small,  imparted  a  little 
gaiety  to  it.  For  the  rest,  it  was  insipid ;  and  it  was 
the  same  for  one  and  all.  Nearly  everybody  had 
to  pass  through  some  sort  of  crisis,  after  a  few 
years'  marriage.  She  would  settle  down,  Addie 
would  settle  down:  they  would  go  on  living  side  by 
side.   .    .    . 

But  days  of  tears  would  follow,  days  of  despair; 
and  she  felt  much  too  young,  much  too  full  of 
vitality,  just  to  drag  on  her  life  like  that.   .    .  .. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

It  was  spring;  and  Marietje,  van  Saetzema  was  to 
go  to  the  Hague  for  the  day,  to  see  her  father  and 
mother.     Constance  went  with  her. 

"How  well  Marietje  was  looking!"  cried 
Adolphine,  with  dehght. 

Marietje  certainly  looked  well.  She  would  al- 
ways remain  a  little  pallid,  frail  and  thin,  with 
narrow  shoulders;  but  her  cheeks  had  filled  out,  her 
eyes  showed  a  dewy  calmness  and  her  lips,  pale 
though  they  were,  blossomed  into  a  kindly  smile. 
She  was,  as  usual,  a  little  subdued,  but  she  joined 
in  the  conversation  and  her  attitude  was  more  na- 
tural, less  painful  and  forced. 

"  But  you  must  leave  her  with  us  for  the  summer 
as  well,"  said  Constance,  "  for  the  poor  girl  hasn't 
had  much  out  of  the  country  air  during  the  winter. 
It  is  beginning  to  look  lovely  now  where  we  are. 
She'll  spend  a  summer  with  us  first,  Adolphine,  won't 
she,  before  you  take  her  back?  " 

"  Very  well,"  said  Adolphine,  gratefully. 

But  presently,  when  she  was  alone  with  her  sister, 
she  found  an  opportunity  to  say ; 

"  At  least   ...   if  there  are  no  objections." 

"  What  objection  could  there  be?  " 

"  Because  of  Addie." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

*'  People  are  so  spiteful  sometimes,  you  know. 
They  say  ..." 

"What  do  they  say?" 

"  They  say  that  Addie  is  in  love  with  Marietje 
and  that  Marietje  does  her  best  to  attract  him." 

236 


DR.  ADRIAAN  237 

"  I  should  let  them  talk,  Phine." 

"  What  do  you  believe,  Constance?  " 

*'  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it.  Addie  Is  in  love 
with  his  wife." 

"  That's  just  it.     People  say  ..." 

"What  do  they  say  now?" 

"  That  things  are  not  going  so  very  well  between 
Mathilde  and  Addie." 

"  Every  young  couple  has  a  difficult  time  now  and 
again.  A  little  difference  of  opinion  ...  I  assure 
you  they  are  happy  together." 

"Is  that  so?" 

"Yes." 

"  It  was  Mathilde's  wish  to  come  and  live  here?  " 

"  It  was  better  that  she  should  be  on  her  own, 
in  her  own  house." 

"Oh,  she  didn't  have  a  scene  with  you  then? 
That's  what  people  say." 

"  I  never  had  a  single  word  with  Mathilde." 

"  I  see  her  once  in  a  way.  She  does  not  talk 
nicely  of  you.  She  says  that  she  was  sacrificed  to 
Gerrit's  children,  that  she  did  not  count  at  home. 
When  she  talks  like  that,  I  defend  you,  for  I  know 
how  nice  you  and  Van  der  Welcke  are  to  every- 
body." 

"  She  may  have  had  a  bitter  moment  that  made 
her  speak  like  that." 

"  She  goes  out  a  lot,"  said  Adolphine. 

"  When?    Whom  does  she  go  to?  " 

"  In  the  evening.  Friends.  She  is  hardly  ever 
at  home  of  an  evening.  She  oughtn't  to  do  that 
.  .  .  without  Addie,  you  know.  It's  so  undo- 
mesticated." 

"  I  know  she  goes  out  now  and  then  of  an  evening 
to  have  tea   .    .    .   with  friends." 

"  Yes,  exactly.  .  .  .  She's  always  out.  .  .  . 
But  how  well  Marietje  is  looking,  Constance !    She 


238  DR.  ADRIAAN 

does  Addie  great  credit.  He's  making  a  great  repu- 
tation .  .  .  with  his  hypnotism.  Everyone  wants 
to  be  hypnotized  by  him.  I'm  always  hearing  him 
praised." 

"  I'm  so  glad,  Adolphine." 

She  went  away,  arranging  to  fetch  Marietje  in 
the  afternoon  and  take  her  back  to  Driebergen. 
She  had  an  open  fly  waiting:  it  was  beautiful,  mild 
weather;  and  the  spring  was  weaving  verdure  in 
between  the  trees.  But  a  heavy  load  lay  on  Con- 
stance' breast  and  she  could  have  cried  .  .  .  be- 
cause of  her  boy,  because  of  Addie.  She  was  going 
to  ride  to  him  now,  at  the  other  end  of  the  town, 
the  Emmastraat.  She  meant  to  lunch  there  and, 
when  she  had  seen  the  grandchildren,  to  come  back 
to  Adolphine's.  It  was  eleven  o'clock.  And  she 
felt  so  much  weighed  down  with  sorrow  for  Addie, 
who  came  home  to  them  looking  more  and  more 
gloomy  every  week,  that  she  could  not,  could  not 
go  to  him  yet  .  .  .  after  all  that  Adolphine  had 
said.  .  .  .  Oh,  how  she  always  loved  saying  things 
that  jarred  upon  your  nerves,  things  that  hurt, 
things  that  grated  against  your  soul!  Did  she  do 
it  purposely?  Was  she  insincere?  Or  was  it  be- 
cause she  couldn't  help  it,  because  she  was  tactless 
...  or,  very  likely,  took  an  unconscious  pleasure 
in  hurting  other  people?  .  .  .  Oh,  perhaps  she 
did  not  know  how  much  pain  she  gave !  .  .  .  But 
to  go  straight  to  Addie  now,  to  Mathilde,  was  im- 
possible.   .    .    . 

"  Cabman,  drive  a  little  way  through  the  Woods 
first." 

The  driver  turned  down  the  Javastraat,  went 
along  the  Scheveningen  Road  and  let  his  horse  roam 
at  will  in  the  rides  of  the  Woods.  .  .  .  Oh,  the 
Hague  was  charming;  she  loved  the  Woods!  Even 
as  Addie  loved  Driebergen,  with  an  innate  inherited 


DR.  ADRIAAN  239 

love  for  the  house  and  household  and  the  fact  of 
living  there — he  was  indeed  his  grandparents'  grand- 
child— so  she  loved  the  Hague  greatly.  She  loved 
those  green  villa-lined  roads,  she  loved  the  briny 
fragrance  of  the  sea.  .  .  .  She  was  now  riding 
along  the  Ornamental  Water,  now,  suddenly,  along 
the  spot  where  she  remembered  meeting  Brauws 
years  ago — he  sitting  on  that  bench  yonder — when, 
after  she  had  turned  round  with  a  start,  he  caught 
her  up;  and  her  confession,  that  she  had  suggested 
a  divorce  to  Henri.  .  .  .  Oh,  those  days,  those 
days  of  life  and  suffering  and  illusion,  so  far,  so  far 
away  in  the  distant  past !  .  .  .  And  now,  now  the 
man  drove  with  his  jog-trot,  the  jog-trot  of  a 
victoria  hired  by  the  hour,  along  the  Kerkhoflaan; 
now  she  was  riding  past  the  old  house.  .  .  .  Oh, 
that  old  house!  It  was  as  though  the  past,  the 
illusion,  the  suffering  and  the  life,  the  later,  later 
life,  were  still  hanging  around  it  like  a  low-drifting 
cloud!  It  was  the  trees  of  yore  and  the  skies  of 
yore  and  the  green  spring  life  of  yore.  The  house, 
the  house :  there  was  the  window  at  which  she  had 
so  often  sat  musing,  gazing  at  the  great  skies  over- 
head, while  her  soul  travelled  along  a  path  of  light. 
Up  above  were  Addie's  little  turret-room  and  her 
own  bedroom :  oh,  that  night  of  illusion  at  the  open 
window,  with  the  noiseless  flashes  of  hope  over  the 
sea,  the  distant  sea  yonder!  .  .  .  She  felt  almost 
inclined  to  stop,  to  alight,  to  ask  leave  to  go  over 
the  house;  but  something  in  the  curtains,  in  the 
outline  of  a  woman  sketching  at  the  window  of  her 
former  boudoir  prevented  her;  and  she  rode  on. 
Oh,  how  she  loved  her  Hague;  and  yet  .  .  .  yet 
she  had  suffered  there,  with  what  antipathy  she  had 
been  surrounded!  .  .  .  Did  that  antipathy  of 
small  souls  for  small  souls  go  on  for  ever?  Must 
her  poor  boy  now  suffer  through  it,  even  though  he 


240  DR.  ADRIAAN 

made  his  name  as  a  doctor?  .  .  .  Oh,  what  a 
heavy  depression  she  felt  upon  her  heart,  as  if  her 
fur  cloak  were  much  too  warm  for  the  balmy 
weather  with  its  breath  of  spring!  .  .  .  Now  they 
were  going  down  the  Bankastraat,  past  poor  Gerrit's 
old  house;  and  suddenly  that  terrible  night  of  snow 
stood  white-hideous  before  her  mind,  stained  dark 
with  her  brother's  blood.  .  .  .  Here  was  Dorine's 
boarding-house;  and  Constance  got  out  and  rang, 
but  Dorine  was  not  in.  .  .  .  The  driver  jogged  on 
wearily.  She  recognized  acquaintances  here  and 
there,  grown  older  now  that  her  memories  were 
harking  back  to  past  years;  and  the  cabman,  doubt- 
less to  spin  out  the  drive,  instead  of  following  the 
Kanaal,  turned  up  the  Alexanderstraat.  Oh,  the 
house,  the  old  family  house,  so  full  of  recollections, 
so  full  of  the  past!  And  .  .  .  she  saw  that  it 
was  empty,  that  it  was  to  let.  With  a  quick 
glance  at  the  uncurtained  windows  above,  she  even 
recognized  the  plasterwork  of  the  ceilings;  and  it 
was  as  though  the  past  still  brooded  there,  still 
stared  out  at  her,  through  the  white,  streaked  win- 
dows. .  .  .  Wearily  the  horse  now  jogged  along 
the  Bezuidenhout;  and  she  saw  poor  Bertha's  house, 
with  its  tightly-drawn  veil  of  chill  panes  stiff  and 
repelling  a  swift  penetrating  glance.  .  .  .  Yes,  the 
Hague  was  like  a  grave  to  her;  and  yet  even  as 
a  grave  the  Hague  was  dear  to  her.  A  grave  ?  And 
Addie  lived  down  there,  at  the  end  of  the  street! 
.  .  .  Would  she  still  care  to  live  in  the  Hague? 
She  did  not  know,  she  did  not  know:  perhaps  she 
was  becoming  used  to  Driebergen,  becoming  used 
to  the  big,  sombre  house  there,  because  there  was  so 
much  love  around  her,  even  though  she  continued 
to  feel  a  stranger  there.  .  .  .  And  a  stranger: 
that  was  how  her  boy  felt  here ! 

The  carriage  now  pulled  up  outside  her  boy's 


DR.  ADRIAAN  241 

house.  Strange,  the  front-door  was  open:  perhaps 
the  maid  was  out  on  an  errand  and  had  left  the 
door  open  for  a  minute  to  save  herself  trouble. 
Constance,  telling  the  driver  to  come  back  at  half- 
past  two,  went  inside.  Addie  could  hardly  be  home 
yet  from  visiting  his  patients.  She  knocked  at  the 
door  of  the  drawing-room  and  received  no  answer. 
Mathilde  was  no  doubt  busy  with  the  children  or 
with  her  housekeeping.  Constance  opened  the  door 
and  walked  in,  to  look  for  her. 

She  gave  a  start.  Through  the  drawing-room 
and  the  dining-room  she  saw  Mathilde  sitting  in 
the  conservatory,  with  Johan  Erzeele  beside  her. 
He  sat  bending  towards  her;  and  he  was  holding 
her  hand  in  his  two.  Mathilde's  eyes  were  staring 
into  the  distance;  and  a  feeble  hesitation  seemed  to 
take  away  something  of  the  usual  strength  of  her 
fine,  healthy,  rather  full  lines.  Constance  saw  it  for 
one  moment,  as  a  strange  vision  in  that  bright,  un- 
softened  conservatory-light,  which  was  made  the 
harder  with  many-coloured  muslin  curtains  and 
coarsely  vivid  with  the  gold  and  motley  of  ugly 
Japanese  fans.  It  gave  Constance  a  fright;  and  in 
that  inexorable  light  the  fright  and  the  vision  were 
both  inexorable. 

It  did  not  last  longer  than  a  second.  Her  shadow 
in  the  drawing-room  made  Mathilde  and  Johan  start 
up ;  and  they  rose  to  their  feet : 

"Mamma!" 

"Mrs.  van  der  Welcke !  " 

It  sounded  like  a  greeting;  but  their  voices  were 
unsteady,  because  they  understood  that  Constance 
had  seen.  Constance'  voice  trembled,  but  she  merely 
said: 

"  Good-morning,  dear.  How  do  you  do,  Mr. 
Erzeele?"  She  kissed  Mathilde,  shook  hands  with 
Erzeele.     "I  came  over  with  Marietje;  I  left  her 


242  DR.  ADRIAAN 

with  her  father  and  mother  and  came  to  look  you 
up  .  .  .  intending  to  lunch  with  you  .  .  .  if  it 
suits  you." 

She  strove  to  make  her  words  and  her  voice  sound 
quite  unaffected  and  she  succeeded;  and,  because  she 
succeeded,  she  suddenly  felt  that  what  she  had  seen 
was  nothing:  a  moment  of  familiar  intimacy.  Were 
they  not  old  friends?  Had  Mathilde  not,  as  a  girl, 
when  he  was  still  a  cadet,  danced  with  him  often  at 
their  dancing-club?  There  was  nothing,  there  was 
nothing;  she  was  reassured  by  the  tranquillity  of  her 
own  voice. 

"  So  you  will  stay  to  lunch,"  said  Mathilde. 

"  If  it  suits  you." 

"Of  course  it  does.   .    .    .   Addie  is  not  in  yet." 

"  Are  the  children  upstairs?  " 

"  Yes,  I'll  send  for  them." 

Erzeele  said  good-bye,  said  that  he  must  go, 
reminded  Mathilde  easily  of  her  appointment  to 
meet  him  the  next  day  at  the  tennis-club.  Constance 
glanced  at  him  quickly:  in  his  uniform,  he  was 
young,  broad  and  short;  his  complexion  fair  but 
bronzed  with  the  sun;  above  his  powerful  shoulders 
and  thick  neck  his  face  stood  fresh  and  strong,  smart 
military,  with  a  pair  of  glad,  childlike  grey  eyes; 
a  long  fair  moustache  shaded  his  lips,  which  were 
laughing  glad  and  warmly  sensual;  and,  when  he 
laughed,  his  small  sharp  ivory  teeth  flashed.  .  .  . 
His  thick  fair  hair  curled  slightly  at  the  tips.  .  .  . 
It  was  very  strange,  but  i.t  struck  her  suddenly  that 
Erzeele's  way  of  looking  at  Mathilde  resembled 
that  of  her  own  husband.  Van  der  Welcke,  when 
.  .  .  when  he  was  young,  when  she  met  him  in 
Rome.  Something  in  the  fresh  vigour  of  his  glance 
and  of  his  rather  sensual  laugh,  something  about  his 
figure,  about  his  teeth  reminded  her  of  Henri  as  a 
young  man. 


DR.  ADRIAAN  243 

"You've  known  him  a  long  time,  haven't  you?" 
asked  Constance,  when  he  was  gone. 

"  Oh  dear,  yes !  "  said  Mathilde,  vaguely. 

The  nurse  brought  down  Jetje  and  Constant  for 
Grandmamma  to  see:  after  that,  the  children  were 
to  go  out  for  a  little  longer. 

*'  They  look  well,"  said  Constance,  huskily. 

She  felt  a  heavy  pressure  of  inexplicable  melan- 
choly on  her  heart,  a  pressure  so  heavy  that  she  could 
have  cried,  so  heavy  that  she  felt  her  eyes  grow 
moist  in  spite  of  herself. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mathilde,  "  they're  very  healthy. 
It's  quite  a  system  that  Addie  and  I  are  practising 
with  that  special  diet  and  the  regular  time  each  day 
in  the  open  air.  The  other  day  it  was  blowing  a 
gale  .  .  .  and  Addie  absolutely  insisted  that  they 
should  go  out  all  the  same.  And  I  must  say  I  agree 
with  him." 

Suddenly,  while  Jetje  was  sitting  on  her  lap  and 
Constant  tugging  at  her  skirts,  Constance  took 
Mathilde's  hand: 

"Then  things  are  all  right  between  you?"  she 
whispered,  almost  imploringly. 

"  How  do  you  mean?  " 

"  You  are  happy  now,  Mathilde  .  .  .  here  at 
the  Hague?" 

"  Certainly,  Mamma.  .  .  .  You  yourself  under- 
stood, didn't  you,  that  I  longed  for  a  house  of  my 
own." 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  understood." 

"Only   ..." 

"What?" 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  robbed  you  of  Addie." 

"  But,  my  dear,  a  son  does  not  belong  to  his 
parents." 

"  Still,  I  reproach  myself.  .  .  .  But  I  could  not 
stay  with  you  any  longer.     You  understood  that  it 


244  DR.  ADRIAAN 

was  not  because  .  .  .  because  you  were  not  kind 
to  me.  You  were  very  kind  .  .  .  you  tried  to  be 
.  .  .  though  I  do  not  believe  that  Papa  likes  me, 
that  Emilie,  Aunt  Adeline  or  any  of  the  others  like 
me.  .  .  .  I  bear  them  no  malice:  I  don't  like  them 
either." 

Constance  was  silent. 

"  I  am  so  different  from  the  boy  and  girl  cousins 
.    .    .   and  Papa  was  always  jealous." 

"My  dear!" 

"And  you  too;  but  you  fought  against  it." 

"  Mathilde,  I  always  wished  you  to  feel  at  home 
with  us;  I  always  hoped  that  some  part  of  you 
would  blend  with  us." 

"Exactly;  and  that  was  impossible;  I  was  too 
different  from  all  of  you ;  and  at  Driebergen  .  .  . 
in  the  end.  ...  I  should  have  become  as  full  of 
nerves   ...    as  Mary." 

There  was  a  tint  of  hatred  in  her  voice. 

"  No,  dear,"  said  Constance,  harking  back,  "  you 
were  not  happy  with  us.  But  because  I  hope  that 
you  are  happy  now   ..." 

She  had  risen  nervously;  the  nurse  had  entered 
and  was  taking  the  children  with  her:  they  were  to 
have  one  more  turn  in  the  street  before  lunch. 

"Tell  me,  Mathilde,  are  you  really  happy?  Do 
you  really  and  truly  love  Addie  again?  " 

"  I  have  always  loved  him.    What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Then  it's  all  right,  then  it's  all  right,  dear." 

"Why  are  you  so  sad?  There  are  tears  in  your 
eyes." 

"  The  Hague  always  makes  me  sad.  The  cabman 
took  me  for  a  little  drive  and  I  passed  all  the  houses 
of  the  old  days  .  .  .  when  we  all  used  to  live 
here." 

"  Did  you  feel  a  longing  to  come  back  to  the 
Hague?" 


DR.  ADRIAAN  245 

"  No,  no  ...  I  don't  want  to  come  back 
again." 

"Will  you  always  remain  at  Driebergen?" 

"  Yes,  I  think  so." 

'*  You  have  found  happiness  there,  I  did  not.  I 
remained  a  stranger." 

"  Tilly  .  .  .  one  day,  perhaps  .  .  .  you  will 
live  there  as  we  do  now  .  .  .  when  we  are  no 
longer  there.   ..." 

"  No,  never." 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  dislike  the  house  and  everything  in  it  .  .  . 
down  to  the  very  doorposts.  And  I  can't  get  used 
to  an  eerie  house   ...   as  you  all  do." 

"ButAddie   ..." 

"  Exactly:  he  will  never  forget  the  house.  What 
can  it  be  to  him?    He  was  not  born  there!  " 

"  He  feels  at  home  there." 

"  Just  so.  And  I  do  not.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  ought 
never  to  have  married  him!  " 

"  Tilly,  Tilly,  what  are  you  saying?  " 

"  I  ought  never,  never  to  have  married  him  1  " 

"  And  you  love  him,  you  love  him !  " 

"  I  have  loved  him,  oh,  very  dearly.  But  he  is 
far  above  me  !  I  do  not  reach  his  level !  He  sacri- 
fices himself  for  me.  And  it  breaks  my  heart  to 
accept  his  sacrifice.  It  oppresses  me !  Oh,  Mamma, 
find  something,  find  something  for  us!  Let  him  go 
back  to  you  all  .  .  .  and  let  me  stay  here  with 
the  children.  ...  I  shall  live  simply  .  .  .  in  a 
small  upper  part  .  .  .  and  practise  economy.  It 
is  all  my  fault,  not  his.  He  is  good  and  kind  and 
magnanimous  .  .  .  but  all  that  oppresses  me.  I 
thought  at  first  that  we  were — how  shall  I  put  it? — 
akin  to  each  other,  kindred  natures.  When  we  got 
married,  I  used  not  to  think  about  such  things  .  .  . 
but  I  thought  in  myself,  with  an  unconscious  cer- 


246  DR.  ADRIAAN 

tainty,  that  we  were  akin.  He  was  so  nice,  so 
straight- forward  and  so  manly;  and  that  rather 
elderly  something  appealed  to  me :  I  used  to  look 
up  to  it,  without  being  oppressed  by  it.  .  .  . 
Gradually,  gradually  I  began  to  feel  that  he  was 
far  above  me.  Things  I  like  leave  him  indifferent: 
little  luxuries,  fashion,  gaiety,  society.  That  hyp- 
notism of  his:  at  first,  I  used  to  think,  'This  is 
something  new,  a  new  method ; '  now,  I  don't  know : 
I  am  becoming  afraid  of  it!  I  am  becoming  afraid 
of  him !  There  is  something  in  him  that  frightens 
me.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  know,  it  is  only  because  he  is  so 
good  and  so  big  and  because  I  feel  very  small  and 
ordinary,  because  I  don't  understand  those  fine, 
lofty  ideals  .  .  .  about  doing  good  and  about 
poor  people  and  about  self-sacrifice !  .  .  .  To  him 
it  all  comes  natural.  He  is  sacrificing  himself  now 
for  me:  he  does  not  care  for  the  Hague  or  for  his 
practice  here,  whereas  I  could  never  live  at  Drie- 
bergen  again.  .  .  .  And,  even  if  I  could  feel  more 
or  less  at  home  among  you  all  .  .  .  even  then, 
even  then  Addie  would  oppress  me  I  .  .  .  Do  you 
understand?  Oh,  you  are  crying!  Of  course  you 
are  angry  with  me:  you  see  your  son  above  every- 
thing. That  is  easily  understood;  and  I  ...  I 
still  have  enough  love  left  for  Addie  to  understand 
it,  to  understand  it  all.  .  .  .  But,  you  see,  the  love 
I  still  have  for  him  .  .  .  is  an  anxious  love,  it's  a 
sort  of  self-reproach  that  I  am  as  I  am  and  not 
different,  a  sort  of  remorse  caused  by  all  kinds  of 
things  I  don't  understand  and  can't  express,  things 
that  make  me  cry  when  I  am  by  myself  and  oppress 
me  .  .  .  oppress  me,  until  I  sometimes  feel  as  if 
I  were  suffocating!  " 

"  Hush,  dear :  here  he  is !  " 

They  both  ceased  and  listened.  They  heard 
Addie's  voice :  coming  home,  he  had  met  the  children 


DR.  ADRIAAN  247 

outside  the  house;  Constance  and  Mathilda  heard 
his  deep  voice  sound  kindly,  playfully,  in  the  hall. 
He  now  opened  the  door,  with  Jetje  on  one  arm 
and  little  Constant  toddling  by  his  side  with  his  hand 
in  his  father's. 

"  Mamma !  "  he  exclaimed,  in  surprise.  "  I  had 
no  idea  that  you  were  here !  " 

"  No,  my  boy,  I  came  up  unexpectedly.  I  brought 
Marietje  with  me  and  left  her  with  her  father  and 
mother." 

"  You'll  stay  to  lunch,  of  course?  " 

"  I  should  like  to." 

"Why,  what's  the  matter  with  you,  Mamma?'* 

"The  matter?"   ^ 

"  And  with  you,  Mathilde?  " 

"With  me?   .    .    .   Nothing." 

He  saw  that  they  had  been  talking  together.  He 
said  nothing  more,  however,  but  played  with  the 
children  for  a  while  and  then  released  himself  and 
gave  them  over  to  the  nurse,  who  had  come  in. 

"  The  youngsters  are  looking  first-rate,  aren't 
they?" 

"  We  shall  have  lunch  in  a  minute.  Mamma," 
said  Mathilde,  tonelessly. 

Addie  sat  down  beside  his  mother,  took  her  hand, 
smiled.    Mathilde  left  the  room  with  her  keys. 

"  Don't  fret.  Mamma,"  he  said. 

"My  boy  .    .    ." 

"  You're  fretting.    You  look  so  sad." 

"  My  dear,  my  dear   ...    I    ... " 

"What?" 

She  gave  a  sob  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
She  was  so  frightened,  so  frightened,  that  it  was  as 
though  her  great  dread  stifled  her  and  prevented  her 
from  breathing.    She  trembled  in  his  embrace. 

"  You  won't  fret,  you  won't  fret,  will  you,  dear?  " 

"  No." 


248  DR.  ADRIAAN 

The  maid  came  to  lay  the  table  in  the  dining- 
room.    Constance  controlled  herself. 

"  Mamma,"  he  said,  jestingly,  now  that  Mathilde 
also  returned,  "you're  losing  all  your  vanity! 
That's  a  nice  old  blouse  to  come  and  see  youf  son 
in !  Look,  it's  wearing  out  at  the  elbows.  Do  you 
know  you  haven't  looked  at  all  smart  lately?  " 

"Oh,  my  dear  boy.  This  blouse  is  quite  good 
still!" 

"  Well,  I  think  it's  seen  its  best  days.  What  do 
you  say,  Tilly?  " 

"  Why  should  I  get  myself  up,  an  old  woman  like 
me?"  said  Constance. 

*'  You'll  never  be  old,  Mummie,  and  a  well- 
turned-out  woman  must  always  remain  well-turned- 
out.   .    .    .   Do  you  remember  the  old  days?  " 

"Yes,  when   ..." 

"  You  brought  home  that  fine  photograph  from 
Nice?" 

She  smiled  through  her  tears : 

"  My  boy,  that  is  so  long  ago !  .  .  .  You 
thought  me  a  bundle  of  vanity  then." 

"  The  photograph  never  leaves  my  writing-table. 
.  .  .  Mamma,  you  mustn't  let  yourself  go  like 
that." 

"  Very  well,  I  don't  wear  this  blouse  any  more. 
.  .  .  But  it  costs  so  much  to  dress  nicely  .  .  . 
and  we  have  so  many  expenses." 

"  You  were  not  rich  in  the  old  days,"  said 
Mathilde,  piqued  at  something  that  she  did  not 
understand. 

"  And  yet  Mamma  wore  dresses  that  cost  six 
hundred  francs,"  said  Addie,  chaffingly. 

"  Yes;  and  now  that  you  are  well  off   .    .    ." 

"  Now  I  never  dream  of  doing  such  a  thing,"  said 
Constance,  gently. 

The  luncheon  was  quiet,  a  little  melancholy,  a 


DR.  ADRIAAN  249 

little  constrained.  Afterwards,  things  went  a  little 
more  merrily  because  Jetje  and  Constant  came 
downstairs  again  with  their  nurse,  suddenly,  in  a 
very  youthful  vision  of  golden  hair  seen  through 
the  open  door.  Their  little  voices  chirped  like  those 
of  young  birds;  and  Constance  could  not  refrain 
from  saying  how  much  they  all  missed  them  at 
Driebergen.  For  there  also  they  were  always 
coming  down  the  stairs,  looking  so  young  and  so 
golden,  like  a  vision  of  the  future,  to  go  walking 
out  of  doors.  Even  in  the  winter  they  brought  a 
hint  of  sunshine  and  of  spring,  something  refresh- 
ing of  youth  and  beginning,  a  promise  of  future  in 
the  old  house  which  was  so  gloomily  full  of  things 
of  the  past,  things  that  hovered  about  the  rooms, 
gleamed  out  of  the  mirrors,  trailed,  like  strange 
draughts,  along  the  lightly  creaking  stairs.    ,    .    . 

Mathilde  did  not  say  much;  she  was  silent  and 
sat  with  her  lips  closed  and  her  whole  face — her 
eyes  half-shut — closed,  after  that  sudden  irresistible 
betrayal  of  her  feelings  to  her  mother-in-law  to 
whom  nevertheless  she  was  attracted  by  no  sort  of 
sympathy. 

A  little  while  later,  Constance'  carriage  came  to 
fetch  her  and  Addie  offered  to  go  to  the  Van 
Saetzema's  with  her  and  see  how  Marietje 
was. 

"  And  what  are  you  doing,  Mathilde  ?  "  asked 
Constance,  gently. 

"  I  don't  know.  ...  I  expect  I  shall  go  out. 
.    .    .   Or  I  may  stay  at  home.   ..." 

Addie  went  upstairs  to  get  ready;  and  Constance 
suddenly  took  Mathilde  in  her  arms. 

"My  dear  ..." 

"Mamma  ..." 

"  You  did  well  to  speak  out  to  me  just  now.  .  .  . 
However  sad  it  made  me  feel,  you  did  right." 


250  DR.  ADRIAAN 

"  Oh,  why  did  I  do  it?  I  should  have  done  better 
to  hold  my  tongue." 

"  No,  no.    Speak,  oh,  do  speak  to  Addie  too  1  " 

"  I  have  spoken  to  him  so  often!  "       ^ 

"Not  lately?" 

Mathilde  shrugged  her  shoulders : 

"No,  not  so  often  lately.  What's  the  use?  It's 
not  his  fault  .  .  .  it's  six  of  one  and  half  a  dozen 
of  the  other   .    .    .   and  it  can't  be  helped." 

"Very  likely.    Only   ..." 

"  Only  what,  Mamma  ?  " 

"  Be  careful,  Mathilde,  I  implore  you !  Oh,  do 
be  careful!  Everything,  everything  can  come  right 
again.  .  .  .  You  are  sure  to  come  together  again 
later  .  .  .  but  be  careful,  be  careful.  Don't  spoil 
your  life." 

They  looked  deep  down  into  each  other's 
eyes. 

"  Mathilde,  I  may  speak  openly  to  you,  mayn't  I? 
Just  because  it's  I,  dear,  your  mother  .  .  .  who 
suffered  so  very  much  .  .  .  because  she  spoilt  her 
life  so  .  .  .  spoilt  it  so  .  .  .  when  she  was 
young  .  .  .  until  life  became  a  torture.  ...  I 
was  a  young  woman,  as  you  are,  Mathilde,  and 
.  .  .  and  I  wasn't  happy  .  .  .  any  more  than 
you  are,  my  poor  child,  at  the  moment  .  .  . 
and  ..." 

"  I  know.  Mamma,"  Mathilde  replied,  shortly. 

"  Yes,  you  know  .  .  .  you  know  all  about  it. 
.  .  .  Of  course  you  know,  dear,  though  I  have  not 
mentioned  it  to  you.  .  .  .  But  just  .  .  .  just  be- 
cause of  all  that,  I  may  tell  you,  may  I  not,  to  be 
careful?    Oh,  do  be  careful!  " 

"  You  are  afraid  of  things  that  don't  exist." 

"  No,  dear,  there  is  nothing.  ...  I  know 
there's  nothing   .    .    .   only   ..." 

"What?" 


DR.  ADRIAAN  251 

"  You  see  .  .  .  when  I  arrived  this  morn- 
ing  .    .    . 

"  Erzeele  was  with  me." 

"  Yes." 

"  He'*s  an  old  friend." 

"  I  know." 

"  He  came  to  make  an  appointment  ...  to 
play  tennis  to-morrow." 

"  Yes,  I  heard  him." 

"  There  was  nothing  else." 

"  He  was  holding  your  hand." 

"  He's  an  old  friend  whom  I  knew  as  a  girl,  al- 
most as  a  child." 

"Yes,  dear,  I  know   .    .    .   but  ..." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  It  is  dangerous." 

"What  is?"  ^ 

"  To  talk  to  him  too  much  .  .  .  while  you're  in 
your  present  frame  of  mind.  If  you're  feeling  un- 
happy, dear,  about  one  thing  or  another  .  .  . 
speak  to  Addie." 

"  I've  spoken  to  him  so  often." 

"  Confide  in  him." 

"  I  have." 

*'  And  not  .    .    .   not  in  Johan  Erzeele." 

Mathilde's  eyes  blazed: 

"  Mamma    .    .    .   you  haven't  the  right!  " 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  have!  I  not  only  have  the  right 
to  tell  you  this  as  Addie's  mother,  but  above  all 
I  have  the  right  because  I  understand  you,  because 
I  am  able  to  understand  you,  because  I  remember 
my  own  wretchedly  unhappy  years  of  despair,  as  a 
young  married  woman,  unsatisfied,  unhappy,  des- 
perate, though  for  other  reasons,  alas,  than  those 
between  you  and  Addie!  .  .  .  Because  I  remem- 
ber all  this,  Mathilde,  because  I  can  never  forget, 
just  because  I  remember,  because  I  now  remember 


252  DR.  ADRIAAN 

how  I  used  to  talk  ...  to  Papa  while  I  was 
married  to  my  poor  old  husband  .  .  .  how  I  used 
to  talk  to  Papa  .  .  .  and  try  to  find  consolation 
in  those  talks  .  .  .  and  how  we  worked  ourselves 
up  with  those  talks  until  .  .  .  oh,  Mathilde,  oh, 
Mathilde,  let  me  tell  you  all  about  it !  .  .  .  Let  me 
tell  you  all  about  it,  quite  simply,  even  though  you 
know,  so  that  I  may  have  the  right  to  speak  to  you. 
I  used  to  talk  to  Papa  .  .  .  and  we  fell  in  love 
with  each  other  ...  we  thought  we  loved  each 
other.    ..." 

"  And,  if  you  thought  so,  why  didn't  you?  " 

"  Because  it  wasn't  true,  dear,  because  it  wasn't 
a  burning  fire  of  feeling,  because  it  was  an  unreal 
feeling,  arising  from  unreal  words  between  a  young 
woman  and  a  young  man  until  .  .  .  until  all  those 
talks  drove  them  into  each  other's  arms  .  .  .  and 
the  awful  thing  became  irrevocable." 

"  Mamma !  " 

"I  am  telling  you  everything,  dear   ..." 

*'  I  know  everything.  Mamma.  But  you  say  you 
used  to  have  unreal  talks  with  Papa." 

"  Yes." 

"  I  talk  simply  to  Johan." 

"  My  dear,  my  dear,  it's  not  that.  I,  I  myself 
was  unreal  ...  in  those  days  ...  in  my  feel- 
ings, which  came  out  of  books  which  I  had  read. 
Papa  used  to  answer  .  .  .  out  of  those  same 
books.  You  .  .  .  you  are  different:  you  are  sim- 
ple; Erzeele,  a  friend  of  your  childhood,  is  simple, 
a  simple-minded  fellow;  your  talks  are  bound  to  be 
different." 

*'  Our  talks  are  simple." 

"  But,  when  I  came  in,  I  saw  that  you  were  talk- 
ing confidentially,  intimately,  intimately  and  eagerly 
.  .  .  and  that  he  was  holding  your  hand,  holding 
your  two  hands." 


DR.  ADRIAAN  253 

"  Yes,  you  saw  that :  he  was  consoling  me." 

"  That's  exactly  what  he  mustn't  do.  That's  ex- 
actly what  he  mustn't  be  allowed  to  do.  Oh,  Ma- 
thilde,  I  am  an  old  woman  and  I  am  your  mother, 
especially  now  that  you  have  no  mother  of  your  own, 
and  I  am  Addle's  mother  .  .  .  and  I  understand, 
I  understand  everything  .  .  .  because  I  myself 
have  suffered  so  much.   ..." 

"  Addie's  coming  downstairs.  Mamma." 

"  Promise  me,  dear   .    .    .   to  be  careful." 

"I   .    .    .   I  will  be  careful." 

"  And  forgive  me,  forgive  me  for  everything 
that  I  have  dared  to  say.  Kiss  me.  Oh,  I  long 
so  intensely  .  .  .  for  you  and  Addie  to  be  happy 
again!  " 

She  took  Mathilde  in  her  arms,  passionately,  and 
kissed  her  twice,  three  times. 

Addie  entered. 

"  I'm  ready.  Mamma.    The  carriage  is  waiting." 

"  I'm  coming,  I'm  coming,  my  boy." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

Summer  came  suddenly:  fine,  sunny  days  followed 
one  after  the  other,  all  the  windows  in  the  big  house 
were  opened  and  the  summer  seemed  to  enter  and 
drive  everything  of  winter  out  of  the  open  windows. 
The  spreading  garden  became  closely  leaved  with  a 
green  and  gold  triumph  of  dense  foliage  which, 
lightly  stirred  by  the  wind,  cast  shadows  over  the 
pond,  with  a  play  of  alternating  flecks  of  light  and 
shade.  Van  der  Welcke,  strolling  along  the  paths, 
found  pleasure  in  watching  Klaasje,  the  big  girl  of 
thirteen,  tearing  round  the  water,  pursued  by  Jack, 
the  new  terrier,  who  barked  and  barked  incessantly 
with  his  sharp,  throaty  bark. 

"  She  is  still  just  like  a  child,"  thought  Van  der 
V^elcke,  "  and  she  is  developing  like  a  little  woman. 
It  is  strange,  the  influence  which  Addie  has  over 
her  .  .  .  and  the  way  the  child  is  perking  up  now 
that  the  fine  days  have  come.  But  it  is  not  only 
the  fine  days,  it  is  Addie  above  all  that  gives  her 
this  balance:  what's  it  through,  I  wonder?  Purely 
through  his  influence,  through  a  sort  of  healing 
magic  that  flows  from  him.  ...  It  is  very 
strange.  The  other  day,  I  had  a  terrible  headache; 
and,  when  he  came  and  just  gave  me  a  little  massage, 
it  was  gone,  quite.  .  .  .  And  the  way  the  fellow 
has  succeeded  in  developing  the  child's  mind,  with 
those  picture-books,  with  those  coloured  things:  it's 
as  though  he  wanted  to  affect  her  by  means  of 
colours  and  glitterings  and  I  don't  know  what.  In 
any  case,  it  came  off ;  she  is  really  learning  her  lessons 
very  well;  and  everything  she  says  is  more  reason- 

254 


DR,  ADRIAAN  255 

able  and  sensible.  It's  as  though  she  were  catching 
herself  up.  .  .  .  Yes,  amuse  yourself,  child. 
.  .  .  Look,  how  wildly  excited  she  is  with  that 
dog,  like  a  real  child;  she's  enjoying  the  fine  weather; 
she's  just  like  a  child  of  nature;  and  she  looks  well 
too:  she'll  grow  into  a  pretty  girl,  though  she's  a 
trifle  heavily  built.  .  .  .  She  no  longer  has  that 
stupid  look  in  her  eyes;  and  there's  something  kind 
and  genuine  about  her  ...  in  her  behaviour  to- 
wards old  Mamma  and  Ernst,  something  motherly 
and  understanding  combined,  as  if  she  felt  she  had 
something  in  common  with  their  clouded  minds. 
.  .  .  It's  jolly  to  look  at  the  child,  to  see  her 
sprouting  and  blossoming,  exactly  like  a  plant  that 
is  now  receiving  just  the  right  light  and  just  the  right 
amount  of  water  .  .  .  and  yet  she  owes  it  all  to 
Addie  and  will  very  likely  never  know  that  she  owes 
it  to  him.  .  .  .  Yes,  the  fellow  wields  a  wonderful 
influence.  .  .  .  Alex  is  keeping  his  end  up  now  in 
Amsterdam  and  seems  to  be  losing  some  of  his 
melancholia  since  Addie  has  been  talking  to  him 
so  regularly:  poor  chap,  he  was  ten  years  old  when 
he  saw  his  father  lying  dead  in  all  that  blood;  and 
it  affected  him  for  all  time!  .  .  .  We  were  right 
to  take  all  those  children  to  live  with  us:  that  sort 
of  thing  gives  a  man  an  object  in  life,  even  me, 
though  I  myself  do  nothing,  though  it's  Constance 
and  Addie  who  act.  I  feel  a  certain  satisfaction, 
even  though  I  just  let  them  do  as  they  please.  .  .  . 
Who  would  ever  have  thought  that  it  would  become 
like  this,  the  big,  lonely  house,  where  Father  and 
Mother  lived  so  very  long  and  sadly  by  themselves, 
now  so  full,  as  a  refuge  for  Constance'  family? 
It  turned  out  so  strangely,  so  very  strangely.  .  .  . 
Oh,  if  my  boy  were  only  happier!  .  .  .  Who 
would  have  thought  that  he,  he  who  has  everything 
in  his  favour,  should  go  falling  in  love  with  a  woman 


256  DR.  ADRIAAN 

who  cannot  make  him  happy  ?  I  am  always  thinking 
about  it.  I  get  up  with  it,  I  go  to  bed  with  it;  I 
see  the  two  of  them  in  the  smoke  of  my  cigarette; 
and  I  am  beginning  to  worry  and  worry  about  it: 
a  proof  that  I'm  getting  old.  .  .  .  And  I  can  see 
that  Constance  also  worries  about  it,  that  the  thought 
of  Addie  .  .  .  and  that  woman  is  always,  always 
with  her  .  .  .  oh,  everything  might  have  turned 
out  so  happily !  .  .  .  But  it  was  not  to  be,  it  was 
not  to  be.  .  .  .A  lovely  summer  morning  like  this 
almost  makes  a  fellow  melancholy.  .  .  .  Yes,  it 
makes  you  melancholy  because  you  know  for  certain 
that  it  won't  long  remain  so,  that  calmness  in  the 
air,  that  beautiful  clear  sky,  that  green  and  gold  of 
the  trees,  and  that  it  will  soon  become  different,  soon 
become  different,  full  of  sadness  and  of  gloomy 
things." 

He  suddenly  spread  out  his  arms,  for  Klaasje, 
pursued  by  the  dog,  came  rushing  down  the  path 
in  his  direction  without  seeing  him,  as  it  were 
blinded  by  the  game  which  she  was  playing. 

"  Uncle  Henri,  Uncle  Henri,  let  me  go !  Jack 
will  catch  me !  " 

"  Mind  and  don't  tumble  into  the  water,"  Van  der 
Welcke  warned  her;  but  she  had  already  released 
herself  from  his  arms  and  was  running  on,  with 
the  dog  after  her. 

"  She's  gone  wild,"  he  thought,  "  wild  with  the 
joy  of  life.  She  is  beginning  to  wake  up,  physically 
and  mentally.  It  is  as  though  a  twilight  were  with- 
drawing from  her,  a  twilight  which  is  beginning  to 
steal  over  me.  What  is  the  matter  with  me  ?  What 
do  I  feel?  Oh,  I  long  to  go  bicycling,  to  go  for  a 
long  spin  .  .  .  but  Addie's  not  here;  and,  even 
when  he  is,  he.  has  no  time,  and  Guy's  working! 
.    .    .   Suppose  I  asked  Gerdy :  she's  fond  of  a  little 


DR.  ADRIAAN  257 

He  went  in,  through  the  conservatory:  the  old 
woman  was  sitting  there,  staring  quietly  out  of  the 
window;  Adeletje  was  busy  with  the  plants. 

"Well,  Mummie,  how  are  you?  What  do  you 
say  to  this  fine  weather?  " 

"What?" 

"  What  do  you  say.  Mum,  to  this  fine 
weather?  " 

The  old  lady  nodded  her  head  contentedly: 

"  Lovely,  lovely,"  she  said.  "  The  wet  mon- 
soon is  over.  But  tell  Gertrude  .  .  .  to  be  care- 
ful  ..    .   of.  the  river  .    .    .   behind  the  Palace." 

Her  voice  sounded  like  a  voice  from  the  past  and 
spoke  of  things  of  the  past. 

"Where  is  Gerdy?"  Van  der  Welcke  asked 
Adeletje. 

"  In  the  drawing-room.  Uncle  Paul's  in  there, 
playing." 

He  heard  the  piano :  Paul  was  improvising.  Van 
der  Welcke  found  Gerdy  leaning  over  the  back  of 
her  chair,  very  pale. 

"  I  say,  dear,  come  for  a  ride  with  me.  It'll 
freshen  you  up." 

She  looked  at  him  dejectedly,  shook  her  head: 

"  I  have  a  headache." 

"  That's  just  why  you  ought  to  come,  dear.  Come 
along,  do   ...   to  please  me." 

He  stroked  her  hair.  She  took  his  hand  and  put 
it  to  her  lips, 

"  Come." 

"  Really,  Uncle,  my  head's  too  bad." 

"  Then,  why  don't  you  go  and  sit  in  the  garden? 
It's  so  hot  in  here." 

"  Aunt  Constance  is  taking  me  for  a  drive  pre- 
sently; and  Mary's  coming  with  us." 

"  Paul,  can't  you  ride  a  bicycle?  There's  one  of 
Addie's  which  you  could  have." 


258  DR.  ADRIAAN 

"  No,  my  dear  chap,  it  makes  you  so  hot.  And 
all  that  perspiring  is  such  a  dirty  business." 

"  Well,  in  that  case,"  thought  Van  der  Welcke, 
"  I'll  go  on  my  own,  but  it's  not  particularly  cheer- 
ful. If  only  Guy  weren't  working!  I  can't  very 
well  take  him  from  his  work  ...  to  come  cycling ! 
So  I'll  go  on  my  own.  .  .  .  Lord,  Lord,  how 
boring!  .  .  .  How  boring  everything  and  every- 
body is  .  .  .  without  my  boy!  How  that  poor 
Gerdy  is  moping!  .  .  .  No.  I  can't  endure  it,  I 
can't  do  it,  I  can't  go  bicycling  by  myself.  .  .  . 
I'll  ask  Guy  to  come.  It'll  do  him  good:  the  boy 
is  too  healthy  to  be  always  sitting  with  a  pile  of 
books  round  him." 

Van  der  Welcke  went  upstairs,  reflecting  that 
Addie  would  not  approve  at  all  if  he  knew  that  his 
own  father  was  taking  Guy  from  his  work  .  .  . 
to  go  bicycling,  as  he  had  often  taken  Addie  himself 
in  the  past. 

"  But  Addie  has  so  much  method,  he  used  to 
divide  his  time  so  splendidly  between  his  work,  his 
mother  .  .  .  and  me,"  thought  Van  der  Welcke. 
"  Still,  to-day,  I  simply  can  not  go  bicycling  on  my 
own  .  .  .  and  so  I'll  just  play  the  part  of  the 
tempter." 

He  had  reached  the  first  storey;  and  here  too  the 
windows  on  the  passage  were  wide  open  and  the 
summer,  fragrant  and  radiant,  entered  the  gloomy 
old  house,  whose  brown  shadows  vanished  in  patches 
of  sunlight.  The  sunlight  glided  along  the  dark 
walls,  the  oak  doors,  the  worn  stairs,  along  the  faded 
carpets  and  curtains  and  through  the  open  doors; 
and  it  was  strange,  but  all  this  new  summer,  however 
much  Van  der  Welcke  had  longed  for  it  throughout 
the  long,  dreary  winter,  the  winter  of  wind  and 
rain,  now  failed  to  cheer  him,  on  the  contrary,  de- 
pressed him  with  inexplicable  sadness. 


DR.  ADRIAAN  259 

He  now  opened  the  door  of  Addle's  study.  Since 
Addie  and  Mathilde  had  moved  to  the  Hague,  the 
room  had  remained  the  same  as  regards  furniture, 
but  somehow  dead ;  only  in  the  morning  Guy  usually 
sat  working  at  his  table  by  the  window  and  Van 
der  Welcke  was  sure  to  find  him  there.  But  he  was 
not  there;  and  the  books  and  maps  had  obviously 
not  been  opened  or  looked  at. 

"Where  can  the  boy  be?"  thought  Van  der 
Welcke.    "  He  can't  still  be  in  bed." 

The  room  did  not  look  as  if  anyone  had  been 
there  that  morning.  There  were  a  couple  of  letters 
on  Addie's  writing-table,  where  the  maids  always 
left  any  that  arrived  for  him  at  the  old  address,  so 
that  he  might  find  them  when  he  came  down,  once 
or  twice  a  week,  for  the  brief  visit  to  which  every 
one  at  home  looked  forward. 

Van  der  Welcke  moodily  closed  the  door : 

"  I'd  better  see  if  he  is  still  upstairs,"  he  thought, 
going  up  the  second  flight. 

Since  Guy  had  given  up  his  bedroom  to  Marietje 
van  Saetzema,  he  slept  in  a  little  dressing-room. 
The  door  was  open;  the  bed  was  made. 

"  The  fellow  must  have  gone  out  already," 
thought  Van  der  Welcke.  "  It's  a  dirty  trick  not  to 
let  me  know.  Well,  I  shall  go  by  myself:  I  need 
some  air." 

Angrily  he  went  downstairs,  through  the  hall,  to 
the  outhouse  where  the  bicycles  were  kept.  Guy's 
was  not  there. 

"There,  I  said  so:  he's  gone  out  and  never  even 
let  me  know.  Oh,  it's  always  like  that :  those  child- 
ren are  always  selfish.  We  do  everything  for  them, 
when  they've  got  no  claim  on  us;  and  what  sort  of 
thanks  do  we  receive?  .  .  .  The  boy  knows  that 
I'm  fond  of  him,  that  I  like  cycling  with  him  when 
Addie's  not  here,  but  he  doesn't  so  much  as  think 


26o  DR.  ADRIAAN 

of  looking  for  me  and  asking  me  to  go  with  him. 
.  .  .  It's  all  egoism,  it's  always  thinking  of  your 
own  self.  ...  If  there's  any  paying  to  be  done, 
that's  all  right,  that's  what  Uncle  Henri's  there 
for;  but  the  least  little  thought  for  me  .  .  .  not 
a  bit  of  it  I  .  .  .  That's  the  way  it  goes.  I've  lost 
Addie  .  .  .  and  tried  to  find  him  again  in  another 
and  it's  simply  impossible  and  ridiculous." 

Still  young  and  active,  he  slung  himself  on  his 
bicycle  and  for  a  minute  or  two  enjoyed  the  motion 
of  the  handsome,  glittering  machine,  as  it  glided 
down  the  summer  lanes;  but  very  soon  he  began  to 
think,  gloomily: 

"  A  motor-car  I  should  have  liked  to  have.  I'm 
not  buying  one  because  of  those  everlasting  boys: 
life  is  expensive  enough  as  it  is.  .  .  .  And  instead 
of  Guy's  thinking  of  me  now  and  again.  .  .  .  Ah, 
well,  if  you  want  to  do  good  to  others,  you  must 
just  do  it  because  it  is  good;  for  to  expect  the  least 
bit  of  gratitude  is  all  rot!  " 

No,  cycling  alone  did  not  console  him;  his  hand- 
some, glittering,  nickel-plated  machine  glided  list- 
lessly down  the  summer  lanes  and  he  suddenly  turned 
round : 

"  That's  enough  for  me  .  .  .  all  by  myself, 
without  anybody  or  anything.    ..." 

And  he  rode  back  home  slowly,  put  the  machine 
away  and  looked  at  the  empty  stand  where  Guy 
usually  kept  his  machine. 

"Have  you  seen  Guy?"  asked  Constance,  meet- 
ing her  husband  in  the  hail. 

"  He's  out,"  said  Van  der  Welcke,  curtly  and 
angrily. 

"  He  hasn't  been  working,"  she  added.  "  I  al- 
ways look  into  Addie's  study  to  see  if  Guy  is  at 
work:  Addie  asked  me  to." 

"  No,  he  has  not  been  working;  he's   ..." 


DR.  ADRIAAN  261 

"Out?'\ 

"  Yes,  with  his  bicycle." 

"  They  why  didn't  he  ask  you  to  go  with  him?  " 

"  I'm  sure  /  don't  know,"  said  Van  der  Welcke, 
angrily,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 

Constance  too  did  not  think  it  friendly  of 
Guy: 

"What  does  it  mean?  "  she  wondered  to  herself. 
"  He  ought  to  have  been  working,  but,  if  he  wanted 
to  go  cycling,  he  might  really  have  let  his  uncle 
know," 

And  her  soul  too  became  filled  with  melancholy, 
because  young  people  were  inevitably  so  ungrateful. 
But  she  said  nothing  to  Van  der  Welcke;  and  they 
never  knew  that  they  often  thought  and  felt  alike, 
as  in  an  imperceptible  harmony  of  approaching  old 
age  that  found  only  a  negative  expression:  they  so 
seldom  quarrelled  nowadays,  at  most  exchanged  a 
single  irritable  word,  even  though  no  deep  sympathy 
had  ever  come  to  them.    .    .    . 

Constance  went  to  her  room  to  put  on  a  hat;  the 
carriage  was  ordered;  she  was  going  for  a  drive 
with  the  girls.  She  felt  worried  about  poor  Gerdy, 
who  no  longer  took  pleasure  in  anything: 

"  It  will  pass,"  she  thought.  "  We  have  all  of 
us,  in  our  time,  been  through  a  phase  of  melan- 
choly. .  .  .  Adeline  told  me  that  Gerdy  was  in 
love  with  Erzeele  .  .  .  but  he  doesn't  appear  to 
think  about  her.  .  .  .  Oh,  how  I  worry  and  worry 
about  it  all :  about  my  poor  boy,  about  Mathilde ! 
.  .  .  Erzeele  is  bound  ...  is  bound  to  be  at- 
tracted by  her.  .  .  .  Come,  I  need  air,  in  this  fine 
weather;  and  yet  this  warm  air  oppresses  me:  the 
summer  is  always  oppressive  in  our  country.  The 
weather  in  our  country  is  always  becoming  some- 
thing :  it  never  has  become  anything,  like  the  weather 
in  the  south;  it  is  becoming,  always  becoming  some- 


262  DR.  ADRIAAN 

thing.  .  .  .  It's  sultry  now,  the  sun  is  scorching; 
we  are  sure  to  have  a  storm  this  evening." 

She  now  left  her  room,  ready,  and  thought : 

"  Addie  is  coming  to  lunch  to-day;  it's  his  day: 
oh,  how  I  always  long  for  that  day!  .  .  .  Last 
time,  he  had  to  answer  some  letters  and  ran  for  ink 
for  his  writing-table.  I'll  just  see  if  everything  is 
in  order  now." 

She  entered  the  room  that  used  to  be  Addle's 
study: 

"  Yes,  the  ink's  there,"  she  told  herself,  with  a 
glance  at  the  writing-table.  "  How  uncosy,  how 
cold  the  room  looks,  with  nothing  but  the  old 
furniture,  the  old  man's  furniture  I  .  .  .  There  are 
letters  for  Addie  again :  the  poor  boy  never  has  any 
rest.   ..." 

Casually  she  took  a  step  towards  the  table  and 
was  struck  by  the  appearance  of  the  letters: 

"  What  is  that?  "  she  thought. 

The  letters — there  were  three  of  them — were 
without  stamps  or  postmarks:  it  was  this  that  had 
struck  her. 

*'  Bills?  "  she  wondered  for  a  moment. 

Then  she  shivered  and  began  to  tremble  so  vio- 
lently that  she  dropped  into  Addie's  chair.  She  had 
recognized  Guy's  hand. 

There  were  three  letters.  One  was  addressed  to 
herself  and  her  husband:  to  "  Uncle  Henri  and  Aunt 
Constance.  ..."  The  second :  to  "  Addie.  .  .  ." 
The  third :  to  "  Mamma.   ..." 

She  sat  distraught,  staring  at  the  three  letters 
vacantly,  without  putting  out  her  hand.  A  cloud 
of  white  squares  seemed  to  whirl  about  her:  it  was 
as  if  the  envelopes  were  flying  round  in  a  circle 
before  her  eyes.    And  she  felt  suddenly  faint. 

"What  is  it?  What  does  it  mean?"  she  asked 
herself,  aloud. 


DR.  ADRIAAN  263 

She  looked  at  Guy's  work-table :  the  books  were 
there,  neatly  arranged  on  the  big  atlases.  She  got 
up  and  trembled  so  violently  that  she  felt  herself 
sinking  away,  into  an  abyss.  She  rang  the  bell. 
The  door  was  open.  She  heard  the  maid  on  the 
stairs  : 

"Truitje!" 

"Yes,  ma'am?" 

"  Truitje,  I'm  here   ...   in  Mr.  Addie's  study." 

"What  is  it,  ma'am?" 

"  Call  your  master   ...   at  once." 

"  But  how  pale  you  look,  ma'am !  What  is  it, 
ma'am?  " 

"  Nothing,  Truitje.    Call  the  master  at  once." 

"Aren't  you  well?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  only  call  the  master." 

The  maid  went  away  in  dismay;  the  stairs  creaked 
under  her  hurried  tread.  .  .  .  Constance  had  sunk 
back  into  the  chair  again  and  sat  waiting.  Down- 
stairs the  piano  sounded,  under  Paul's  fingers,  and 
she  followed  the  tune,  Siegmund's  Love-song : 

"  He  plays  well,  he  plays  well,"  she  thought. 

She  was  half-fainting;  the  white  squares  still  sur- 
rounded her,  because  of  the  three  letters,  there,  on 
the  table. 

She  now  heard  a  footstep  on  the  stairs;  she  fol- 
lowed the  creaking  as  it  came  nearer.  It  was  her 
husband,  at  last. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Constance?  " 

Her  throat  would  not  allow  a  word  to  pass;  she 
merely  pointed  to  the  table. 

"  Well,  what  is  it?    Letters?    For  Addie?  " 

She  continued  to  point.  He  looked,  recognized 
Guy's  hand.  He  glanced  at  her;  she  said  nothing. 
He  now  opened  the  letter  to  "  Uncle  Henri  and 
Aunt  Constance" : 

"  Has  the  boy  gone  mad?  " 


264  I>R-  ADRIAAN 

Constance  looked  up  with  a  question  in  her  eyes. 
Every  kind  of  thought  raced  through  her,  so 
rapidly  that  she  could  not  follow  them.  And  yet 
she  seemed  to  see  one  thought  flash  across  them 
slantwise:  had  three  letters  from  Alex  been  lying 
there,  from  Alex  who  was  always  so  much  obsessed 
by  the  vision  of  terror  and  blood  that  had  shocked 
his  young  imagination,  she  would  have  feared  the 
worst. 

Van  der  Welcke  handed  her  the  letter  without  a 
word;  she  read  it  greedily.  Guy  wrote  briefly,  wrote 
difficult,  sincere  words  of  gratitude.  Oh,  it  was  not 
want  of  gratitude  to  Uncle  Henri  and  Aunt  Con- 
stance that  had  made  him  go  without  taking  leave 
of  all  who  were  dear  to  him !  He  was  not  ungrate- 
ful to  Addie !  But  it  was  just  because  under  all  his 
cheerfulness  he  had  felt  himself  quietly  growing 
sad  under  all  their  kindness  .  .  .  while  he  found 
it  impossible  to  go  on  working.  And  of  course  he 
knew  that,  if  he  had  said  to  Addie,  "  I  can't  work 
at  books;  what  I  want,  very  vaguely  and  I  don't 
know  how,  is  to  make  my  own  way,"  Addie  would 
have  let  him  go,  because  Addie  understood  every- 
body and  everything  so  well.  But  it  was  just  this, 
the  conversations,  the  leave-takings,  that  he  feared, 
because  within  him  there  was  so  much  inert  weak- 
ness, because  he  could  never  have  gone,  if  he  had 
had  to  speak,  if  he  had  had  to  take  leave;  and  that 
was  why  he  was  going  away  like  this,  with  his 
bicycle  and  his  bit  of  pocket-money. 

"But  the  boy's  mad!"  cried  Van  der  Welcke. 
"  To  clear  out  like  this  at  his  age,  with  no  money 
and  just  his  bicycle !  The  boy's  mad !  I  must  tele- 
graph to  Addie  at  once." 

"He  will  be  out  .  .  .  and  on  his  way  to  us: 
this  is  his  day  for  coming  down." 

"  Which  train  does  he  come  by?  " 


DR.  ADRIAAN  265 

"  The  half-past  eleven  as  a  rule." 

The  girls,  Gerdy  and  Mary,  came  in,  with  their 
hats  on: 

"  Are  you  coming,  Aunt?    The  carriage  is  there." 

"  The  carriage?  " 

"  When  we've  been  for  our  drive,  we  can  fetch 
Addie  from  the  station,"  said  Mary. 

Constance  burst  into  sobs. 

"  Auntie,  Auntie,  what's  the  matter?  " 

Van  der  Welcke  left  the  room,  taking  the  letter 
for  Addie  with  him: 

"  How  are  we  to  tell  her?  "  he  thought  to  himself. 

Constance,  upstairs,  had  an  attack  of  nerves. 
She  sobbed  as  violently,  felt  as  miserable  in  the 
depths  of  her  being  as  if  it  had  been  her  own  child 
that  had  left  the  paternal  house  .    .    .   for  good. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

In  the  midst  of  the  sunshine  on  that  summer  day  a 
spirit  of  melancholy  descended  upon  the  whole  of 
the  big  house  and  set  the  nerves  of  all  the  inmates 
tingling.  Addie  had  been,  had  read  Guy's  letter, 
had  left  at  once  .  .  .  for  Rotterdam.  Down- 
stairs, in  the  morning-room,  Adeline  sobbed  without 
ceasing;  and  from  the  sunlit  conservatory  the  old 
grandmother  stared  at  her  through  the  vista  of  the 
rooms,  because  she  did  not  understand.  .  .  .  Ade- 
line lay  sobbing  in  Emilie's  arms;  Marie  and  Paul 
were  with  her  too;  upstairs,  Adeletje  and  Mary 
remained  with  Constance.  Brauws  appeared  at  the 
door: 

"What  has  happened?"  he  asked,  in  a  whisper. 

Van  der  Welcke  seized  him  by  the  arm,  took  him 
into  the  garden.  Klaasje  lay  half-asleep  against  the 
thick  trunk  of  a  beech,  with  Jack  nestling  in  her 
little  skirts,  both  tired  with  playing.  The  child  was 
humming  a  tune,  looking  up  at  the  sky,  dreaming 
away  amid  all  the  gold  that  rained  down  upon  her 
from  between  the  leaves  like  glittering  coins. 

"  What  has  happened?  "  Brauws  asked  again. 

But  Van  der  Welcke  could  not  speak;  his  throat 
refused  to  let  the  words  through. 

"  Good-morning,  Uncle  Brauws !  "  cried  Klaasje, 
dreamily.  "  Look,  Uncle  Brauws,  Fm  very  rich. 
It's  raining  golden  sovereigns  over  me  .  .  .  out  of 
the  beech-tree,  out  of  the  beech-tree  I  .  .  .  Out  of 
the  beech-tree  golden  sovereigns  are  raining  over 
Klaasje!  "  she  hummed  rhythmically. 

266 


DR.  ADRIAAN  267 

"  Hans,"  asked  Brauws,  "  what's  the  matter,  old 
fellow?" 

"  It's  that  idiot  of  a  Guy!  "  said  Van  der  Welcke, 
at  last,  hoarsely,  "  I  was  looking  for  him  this 
morning,  couldn't  find  him  anywhere.  His  bicycle 
was  gone.  .  .  .  He  has  cleared  out.  He  left  three 
letters  behind  him:  for  his  mother,  for  Addie  and 
for  us.  He  writes  that  he  can't  work  at  books,  that 
he  wants  to  try  his  own  way.  .  .  .  I've  read  all 
the  letters.  .  .  .  He  tells  Addie  .  .  .  that  he 
feels  that  he  must  stand  alone  .  ,  .  that  he  must 
stand  alone  if  he's  to  do  any  good  .  .  .  that 
...   in  this  house.    ..." 

Van  der  Welcke  gave  a  sob. 

"Well?" 

"  He  feels  himself  growing  flabby  .  .  .  because 
there's  too  much  affection,  too  much  leniency  for 
him.  .  .  .  That's  the  sort  of  thing  he  writes.  .  .  . 
Who  would  have  thought  the  boy  was  so  silly? 
.  .  .  He  writes  that  he  won't  do  any  good  .  .  . 
if  he  stays  here.  .  .  .  That  he  wants  to  go  and 
face  the  world.  ...  A  boy  of  his  age !  .  .  . 
The  most  ridiculous  idea  I've  ever  heard  of !   .    .    . 

"  The  boy  may  be  right,"  said  Brauws,  very 
gently. 

But  Van  der  Welcke  was  not  listening: 

*'  I  shall  miss  him,"  he  confessed.  *'  I  miss  him 
now.  He  was  my  favourite  .  .  .  among  them  all. 
He  consoled  me  for  the  loss  of  Addie.  ...  I 
loved  him  as  my  own  son;  so  ...  so  did  Con- 
stance." 

Brauws  was  silent. 

"  Life  is  a  damned,  rotten  encumbrance !  "  said 
Van  der  Welcke,  explosively.  "  We  do  everything 
for  those  children,  we  do  everything  for  that  boy; 
and,  all  of  a  sudden,  he  goes  away  .  .  .  instead 
of   .    .    .   instead  of  staying  with  us,  causes  us  sor- 


268  DR.  ADRIAAN 

row,  breaks  his  poor  mother's  heart.  .  .  .  He 
writes  about  America.  .  .  .  Addie  went  straight 
to  the  station  to  make  enquiries.  He  was  going  on 
to  Rotterdam.  Addie  .  .  .  Addie  never  has  a 
moment's  peace.  .  .  .  He  was  looking  tired  as  it 
was,  tired  and  sad;  and,  instead  of  having  a  day's 
rest  .  .  .  with  us  .  .  .  with  all  of  us  .  .  .1 
wanted  to  go  with  him  .  .  .  but  he  said  he  pre- 
ferred to  go  alone.  .  .  .  Why  not  have  told 
Addie  .  .  .  that  he  would  rather  do  something 
else  .  .  .  than  go  into  the  Post  Office?  .  .  . 
God,  we'd  have  been  glad  enough  to  help  him! 
.  .  .  He — Addie — does  everything  .  .  .  does 
every  blessed  thing  for  the  children.  .  .  .  Oh, 
Brauws,  it's  as  if  a  son  of  my  own  had  run  away 
.  .  .  run  away  in  a  fit  of  madness !  .  .  .  Addie 
has  gone  to  Rotterdam.  It  was  Addie's  idea,  Rot- 
terdam. But  Guy  can  just  as  well  have  gone  to 
Antwerp,  to  Le  Havre,  to  God  knows  where  !  .  .  . 
He  hadn't  much  money  with  him.  .  .  .  What  will 
he  do,  what  were  his  plans?   ..." 

The  sunny  summer  day  passed  gloomily:  just  a 
telegram  from  Addie,  "  Coming  to-morrow,"  with- 
out any  further  explanation.  Constance  had  found 
the  strength  to  go  to  Adeline  in  her  room;  the  girls 
were  overcome  with  a  silent  stupefaction,  at  the 
thought  that  Guy,  their  cheerful  Guy,  kept  so  much 
hidden  under  his  light-heartedness :  a  deeper  dissatis- 
faction with  life,  vague  and  unclear  to  all  of  them, 
who  were  so  happy  to  be  with  Uncle  Henri  and 
Aunt  Constance  in  what  had  so  long  been  their 
family  house,  since  they  had  been  quite  small  child- 
ren; and,  when  Alex  arrived  in  the  evening  from 
Amsterdam,  he  too  could  not  understand  why  Guy 
had  felt  a  need  so  suddenly  to  go  away  from  all  of 
them,  without  taking  leave,  with  that  queer  idea  of 
making  his  way  in  the  world  alone.   .    .    .   On  the 


DR.  ADRIAAN  269 

contrary,  he — Alex — valued  in  the  highest  degree 
all  that  Uncle,  Aunt  and  Addie  did  for  him :  without 
them,  he  would  never  have  made  any  headway  in 
the  world  and  he  was  making  headway  at  last,  he 
thought.  He  was  now  working  methodically  at 
Amsterdam  and  almost  methodically  making  his 
melancholy  yield  ground:  it  was  as  though  Addie 
inspired  him  with  the  love  of  work  and  the  love  of 
life,  wooing  to  life  in  him  the  strength  to  become 
a  normal  member  of  society,  oh,  he  felt  it  so  clearly ! 
After  every  talk  with  Addie  he  felt  it  once  more, 
felt  strength  enough  to  stay  one  week  in  Amster- 
dam, to  work,  to  live,  to  see  the  dreaded  life — 
which  his  father  had  escaped  by  suicide  come  daily 
closer  and  closer,  nearer  and  nearer,  like  a  ghostly 
vista,  at  first  viewed  anxiously  and  darkly,  but  later 
entered,  walked  into,  inevitably,  until  all  the  ghostli- 
ness  of  it  was  close  around  him.  .  .  .  And,  when 
he  thought  of  his  father  and  always  saw  him  lying, 
in  a  pool  of  blood,  v/ith  his  mother's  body  flung 
across  the  corpse  in  all  the  terror  of  despair,  then 
at  the  same  time  he  would  think  of  Addie  and 
reflect  that  life,  no  doubt,  would  not  be  gay  but 
that  nevertheless  it  need  not  always  hark  back  out 
of  black  spectral  dread  to  his  youth  .  .  .  because 
Addie  spoke  of  being  strong  and  becoming  a  man 
gradually.  .  .  .  And  Guy  had  gone,  had  evaded 
just  that  beneficial,  strengthening  influence  of  Addie  ! 
.  .  .  No,  Alex  also  could  not  understand  it;  and 
that  evening  he  remained  sitting  gloomily  between 
his  sisters,  not  knowing  what  he  could  say  to  com- 
fort his  mother.  .  .  .  The  next  day  was  Sunday; 
and,  if  he  did  not  see  Addie  on  Sunday,  he  knew 
that  the  following  week  would  not  be  a  good  one 
for  him  in  Amsterdam,  would  be  a  bad,  black 
week.   .    .    . 

And  it  was  only  Grandmamma   and  Ernst  and 


270  DR.  ADRIAAN 

Klaasje  who  did  not  feel  oppressed  by  the  sombre, 
sudden,  incomprehensible  and  unexpected  event 
which  the  others  were  all  trying  to  understand  and 
explain :  to  them  the  summer  day  had  been  all  sun- 
light and  the  gloom  had  passed  unperceived  by  them. 

Next  morning  Addie  returned.  Constance,  who 
was  quite  unstrung,  had  been  twice  and  three  times 
to  the  station  in  vain.    At  last  she  saw  him : 

"You  didn't  find  him?"  she  asked,  with  con- 
viction. 

"  Yes,  I  did." 

"What?  You  found  him?  How?  How  was  it 
possible?  " 

"  I  had  an  idea  that  he  couldn't  go  farther  than 
Rotterdam :  he  hadn't  much  money  on  him.  I  hunted 
and  hunted  until  I  found  him." 

"  And  you  haven't  brought  him  back  with  you  I  " 

"  No,  I  let  him  go." 

"You  let  him  go?" 

"  I  think  it's  best :  he  was  very  anxious  to  go. 
He  was  angry  at  my  finding  him.  I  talked  to  him 
for  a  long  time.  He  said  that  he  wished  to  be 
under  no  more  obligations,  fond  though  he  was  of 
us,  grateful  though  he  felt.    ..." 

Constance,  trembling,  had  taken  Addie's  arm; 
they  went  home  on  foot;  the  road  lay  in  a  bath  of 
summer  under  the  trees. 

"  He  spoke  sensibly.  He  had  a  vague  idea  of 
working  his  passage  on  a  steamer  as  a  sailor  or 
stoker.  I  took  a  ticket  for  him.  He  will  write  to 
us  regularly.  I  told  him  that  Mr.  Brauws,  if  he 
liked,  could  certainly  give  him  some  introductions 
in  New  York.  He  said  he  would  see.  He  showed 
a  certain  decision,  as  if  he  were  doing  violence  to 
something  in  his  own  character.  It  was  rather 
strange.  ...  I  thought  that  I  ought  not  to  compel 
him  to  come  back.    He  told  me  that  he  was  certain 


DR.  ADRIAAN  271 

of  not  passing  his  examination  and  that  this  was 
what  got  on  his  mind  and  upset  him,  that  he 
couldn't  concentrate  on  his  books,  that  he  would  now 
look  after  himself.  .  .  .  There  was  a  boat  going 
to  London;  I  gave  him  some  money.  .  .  .  It's 
better  this  way.  Mamma.  Let  him  stand  on  his 
own  legs.  Here,  the  way  things  were  going,  he 
might  have  gone  drudging  on.   ..." 

She  wept  distractedly : 

"  We  shall  miss  him  so.  .  .  .  He  was  the  life 
of  the  house,  .  .  .  Papa,^  Papa  will  miss  him 
badly.  .  .  .  Oh,  it's  terrible!  .  .  .  Poor,  poor 
Adeline !  " 

They  reached  home. 

'*  Let  me  speak  to  Aunt  Adeline  first." 

"  My  dear,  my  dear,  make  everything  right. 
.  .  .  Oh,  put  it  so  that  Aunt  thinks  it  right  and 
accepts  it:  you  can  do  everything,  dear!  " 

"  No,  Mamma,  I  can't  do  everything." 

"  You  can  do  everything,  you  can.  What  should 
we  have  done  without  you?  Now  that  you  have 
found  him  and  talked  to  him  and  made  things 
smooth  for  him,  perhaps  everything  will  be  all 
right  for  him.  If  you  hadn't  found  him  .  .  .  ! 
How  did  you  know  that  he  had  gone  to  Rotter- 
dam?" 

*'  I  felt  almost  sure  of  it,  Mummie,  But  I  didn't 
know  anything  for  certain.  I  might  have  been  mis- 
taken." 

"  You  look  so  tired." 

"  I  have  had  a  tiring  day." 

"  Addie,  to  people  outside,  to  the  family  we  will 
say  ..." 

"  That  he  has  gone  to  America  ...  a  sudden 
idea   ,    .    .   with  introductions  from  Mr.  Brauws." 

*'  My  dear,  how  can  you  talk  of  it  so  calmly?  " 

"  Mummie,  perhaps  it's  better  as  it  is  .    .    .   for 


272  *>  DR.  ADRIAAN 

him.  He  was  doing  no  good  here.  He  wasn't 
working.  And  he  was  getting  enervated  in  the 
midst  of  all  his  relations.  He  has  developed  a 
sudden  energy;  it  would  be  a  pity  to  stifle  it.  I 
...   I  simply  could  not  bring  myself  to  do  that." 

"  My  boy,  do  you  tell  your  aunt.  Tell  Papa,  too, 
tell  all  of  them,  tell  his  sisters  and  Alex.  I  ...  I 
can't  tell  them.  I  should  only  cry.  I'm  going  up- 
stairs, to  my  room.  You'll  tell  them,  won't  you? 
You'll  make  it  appear  as  if  it's  all  right,  as  if  it's 
quite  natural,  as  if  it's  all  for  the  best." 

"  Yes,  Mummie  dear,  you  go  upstairs.  I  .  .  ,j 
I'll  tell  it  them,  I'll  tell  all  of  them.   .    .    ." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

The  oppressive,  sultry,  rainless  summer  days  fol- 
lowed one  after  the  other;  and  the  night  also  waited 
in  oppressive  expectation  of  oppressive  things,  which 
were  to  happen  and  never  happened,  as  though  what 
we  expected  to  happen  immediately  withdrew  and 
withdrew  farther  and  only  hung  over  houses  and 
people  with  heavy  stormy  skies:  skies  of  blazing 
morning  blue,  until  great  grey-white  clouds  blew  up 
from  a  mysterious  cloudland  and  drifted  past  on 
high;  only  on  the  more  distant  horizons  was  there 
any  lightning;  and  that  came  soundlessly,  later  in 
the  day;  the  threat  of  a  thunderstorm  drove  past; 
the  foliage  became  scorched  in  the  dust  of  advancing 
summer  and  faded  with  the  approach  of  decay;  and 
there  was,  almost,  a  sort  of  longing  for  autumn  and 
for  purple  death  in  autumnal  storms :  a  nature,  tired 
with  heavy,  trailing  summer  life,  that  had  never 
finally  become  anything  and  was  always  becoming 
something,  never  flashing  forth  in  a  bright  achieve- 
ment of  summer  but  dragging  her  incompleteness 
from  heavy  day  to  heavy  day,  under  the  heavy  im- 
mensity of  skies,  towards  the  later  bursting  delights 
of  autumn :  heavy  wind,  heavy  rain,  followed  by  the 
heavy  death-struggle  and  unwillingness  to  die  of 
that  which  had  never  been  the  glory  of  the  sun  and 
yet  left  no  golden  memory  behind.    .    .    . 

Often  in  those  oppressive  nights  Marietje  van 
Saetzema  could  not  get  to  sleep,  or  else  woke  up 
with  a  sudden  start.  She  had  been  dreaming  that 
she  was  falling  down  an  abyss,  or  gliding  down  a 
staircase,  or  bumping  her  head  against  the  ceiling, 

273 


274  DR-  ADRIAAN 

like  a  giant  bluebottle.  Then  she  would  get  up, 
draw  the  curtains  and  look,  out  at  the  heavy  night 
of  trees,  grey  with  darkness  melting  into  darkness: 
the  road  beyond  the  house  was  grey,  like  an  ashen 
path;  the  oak  and  beeches  showed  grey,  their  leafy 
tops  unruffled  by  the  wind;  in  the  front  garden  the 
dust-covered  standard  roses  stood  erect  as  pikes  and 
the  roses  drooped  from  them,  grey  and  with  the 
tired,  pining  attitude  of  heavy  flowers  hanging  from 
limp  stalks.  All  was  grey  and  silent:  only,  in  the 
very  far  distance,  a  dog  barked.  And  the  bedroom, 
still  dark  with  the  night — the  nightlight  had  gone 
out — began  to  stifle  Marietje  so  much  that  she  softly 
opened  the  door  and  went  through  the  attic,  though 
Addie  had  forbidden  her  to  wander  about  like  this 
at  night.  She  went  carefully  in  noiseless  slippers, 
pale  in  her  night-dress,  staring  wide-eyed  into  the 
grey  indoor  twilight.  She  passed  the  doors  of  the 
maids'  bedrooms  and  down  the  first  flight  of  stairs, 
stepping  very  lightly,  so  that  the  stairs  did  not 
creak.  Once  on  the  staircase  she  breathed  more 
freely,  with  relief  at  feeling  something  more  spacious 
than  the  air  of  her  room,  the  relief  of  unfettered 
movement,  although  the  grey  silence  wove  such 
strange  great  cobwebs  all  around  her,  through  which 
she  walked  down  the  endless  passages.  She  now 
went  past  Uncle's  door,  Aunt's  door,  Mamma's 
door,  the  girls'  doors,  past  Addie's  and  Mathilde's 
empty  rooms  .  .  .  and  she  felt  that  she  was  very 
much  in  love  with  Addie,  silently  and  without  desire, 
and  was  always  thinking'  of  him,  even  though  she 
did  not  always  do  as  he  told  her,  because  she  simply 
could  not  remain  in  her  room  and  longed  even  for 
the  out-of-door  air,  to  feel  it  blowing  through  the 
filmy  tissues  that  covered  her  young  body.  And, 
however  much  without  desire,  because  Addie  re- 
mained to  her  the  utterly  unattainable,  yet  there 


DR.  ADRIAAN  275 

blossomed  up  in  her  a  nervous  passion  like  some 
strange  flower  or  orchid  or  lily,  seen  in  a  waking 
dream,  a  blameless  girl's  dream  of  love,  of  soft, 
wistful  lying  in  each  other's  arms  and  feeling  the 
pressure  of  breast  against  breast  or  mouth  against 
mouth  and  ecstatic  thrills  through  all  one's  body. 
.  .  .  Then  Marietje  would  long  for  Addie,  so  that 
he  might  lay  his  hand  upon  her  head:  no  more,  that 
was  enough  for  her,  because  she  was  also  very  fond 
of  him,  of  his  voice  and  his  glance  and  his  speech, 
of  his  care,  of  his  sympathy,  of  everything  abstract 
that  came  from  him  to  her;  she  knew  that,  on  his 
side,  it  was  no  more  than  gentle  interest,  but  it  was 
enough  for  her :  she  lived  upon  little  like  a  bloodless 
lily,  her  body  and  soul  needing  no  excess.  She  well 
knew  at  the  moment  that  she  was  doing  what  she 
should  not,  wandering  like  that  through  the  house, 
half  awake,  half  asleep,  because  it  was  so  fresh  and 
cool  to  walk  about  like  that  half-naked.  The  night 
grew  grey  with  dusk  and  there  were  deeper  shadows 
in  the  corners,  but  she  was  not  afraid,  after  she  had 
once  talked  to  Addie  about  the  house  and  he  had 
explained  to  her  that,  if  there  was  anything  of  the 
past  hovering  about  it,  it  could  not  be  malign  or 
angry,  but  rather  well-disposed  and  on  the  alert,  in 
case  it  could  be  of  use.  .  .  .  He  spoke  to  nobody 
but  her  like  this;  she  knew  that  and  it  gave  her  a 
deep  love  for  him,  especially  because  he  had  said 
it  so  very  simply  and  without  any  sort  of  exaggera- 
tion, as  though  it  were  the  very  simplest  thing  that 
he  could  have  wished  to  say.  .  .  .  Nor  did  he 
speak  like  that  often;  once  or  twice  at  most  he  had 
spoken  so;  but  it  had  reassured  her  greatly,  ever 
since  she  had  been  frightened  into  fainting  on  the 
little  staircase,  all  because  of  a  sudden  shadow  which 
she  thought  that  she  saw  and  yet  did  not  know  if 
she  really  saw.   .    .    . 


276  DR.  ADRIAAN 

She  was  now  going  down  by  that  same  little  back 
staircase,  almost  longing  to  see  a  shadow  and  always 
thinking  of  Addie ;  but  she  saw  nothing.  White  and 
as  though  walking  in  her  sleep,  she  felt  her  way 
down  the  narrow  little  stairs.  They  creaked 
slightly.  She  next  opened  a  door,  leading  into  the 
long  hall,  which  was  like  that  of  an  old  castle,  so 
fine  with  its  old  wainscoting.  The  long  Deventer 
carpet  was  paled  by  many  years'  traffic  of  feet;  the 
front  door  seemed  to  vanish  in  the  grey  vista;  on 
the  oak  cabinet  the  Delft  jars  gleamed  dimly.  .  .  . 
She  walked  in  a  waking  dream  on  her  noiseless 
slippers  and  now  opened  the  door  of  the  morning- 
room,  all  dark,  with  the  blinds  down — she  was  very 
white  now  in  the  darkness  and  could  see  her  own 
whiteness — and  she  looked  through  the  drawing- 
room  into  the  conservatory,  where  Grannie  was  al- 
ways accustomed  to  sit.  The  conservatory-windows 
showed  faintly  like  transparent  greynesses;  and  be- 
hind them,  in  the  dawning  light  of  very  early 
morning,  something  of  the  dusk  of  the  garden 
melted  away:  in  the  very  early  light  it  was  all  ash, 
the  conservatory  full  of  fading  ash  and  the  garden 
full  of  ash.  Not  an  outline  was  visible  as  yet;  and 
she  gazed  and  gazed  .  .  .  and  thought  it  so 
strange — and  yet  perhaps  not  so  very  strange — that 
such  outlines  as  did  stand  out  in  the  conservatory 
against  the  grey  windows  were  motionless  as  the 
outlines  of  two  dark  shadows  sitting  each  at  a 
window,  as  it  were  an  old  man  and  an  old  woman, 
looking  out  at  the  birth  of  morning,  which  very  far 
in  the  distance  gave  just  a  reflexion  of  paler  twi- 
light.  ... 

Marietje  now  closed  her  eyes  for  an  instant,  then 
raised  her  lids  again  and  stared  at  the  conservatory; 
and  it  was  always  that:  the  outline  of  the  dark, 
brooding    shadows,    so    very    similar    to    uncon- 


DR.  ADRIAAN  277 

sciousness,  as  if  she  were  looking  through  atmo- 
sphere within  atmosphere,  invisible  at  other  hours 
than  those  of  the  greyness  of  the  ending  night  and 
the  beginning  of  the  morning  melancholy.  .  .  . 
The  two  irrealities  remained  grey  against  grey;  and 
suddenly  Marietje  felt  very  cold  and  shivered,  half 
naked  as  she  was;  and,  in  her  shivering,  it  seemed 
to  her  that,  very  quickly,  the  shadows  themselves 
shivered,  as  with  a  start  of  surprise,  and  disap- 
peared, because  she  had  dared  to  stare  at  them. 
Nothing  was  outlined  any  more  against  the  con- 
servatory-windows; only  the  morning  between  the 
trees  grew  paler:  there  was  even  a  streak  of 
white.   .    .    . 

Marietje  was  cold.  She  left  the  room,  forgot  to 
shut  the  door  after  her  and,  going  down  the  passage, 
made  for  the  little  back  staircase  and  here  also 
forgot  to  shut  the  door.  Up,  up  she  crept,  shivering, 
with  the  noiseless  tread  of  the  soft  slippers;  across 
the  attic  now;  and  she  stole  into  bed,  quite  cooled, 
and,  after  just  thinking  about  what  she  had  seen 
dimly  outlined — perhaps — against  the  grey  con- 
servatory-windows, she  fell  asleep,  peacefully,  and 
dozed  until  late  in  the  morning,  peacefully  and  like 
a  cold  virgin  now,  with  the  bedclothes  drawn  up  to 
her  chin. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

Addie  was  out  in  the  afternoon  when  Mathilde 
opened  Constance'  telegram: 

"  Please  come  see  Emilie." 

"  There's  always  something,"  Mathilde  grumbled 
to  herself.  "  Addie  is  physician-in-ordinary  to  his 
relations.  When  it's  not  Klaasje,  it's  Adeletje,  or 
Mary,  or  Emilie.  There's  always  something.  .  .  . 
What  can  be  the  matter  with  her  now?  He's  only 
just  been  home.  Oh,  of  course,  she's  always  ill  in 
the  summer!  I  expect  it's  the  same  as  last 
year.   ..." 

She  had  an  angry  impulse  to  tear  up  the  telegram 
and  say  nothing  to  Addie,  to  tell  him  later  that  it 
must  have  gone  astray.  She  did  not  destroy  it, 
however,  but  laid  it  on  the  table  where  he  would 
see  it  and  then  went  out  to  the  tennis-club.  As  a 
rule,  she  took  the  steam-tram  ^  and  alighted  at  the 
Witte  Brug.  This  time,  she  ran  against  Erzeele, 
with  his  racket  in  his  hand,  in  the  Bezuidenhout. 

"  I  was  waiting  for  you,"  he  said. 

"  How  nice  of  you !  .  .  .  Let's  take  the  steam- 
tram." 

"Why  not  walk?" 

They  stepped  out,  along  the  Hertenkamp. 

"  Is  anything  the  matter?  "  he  asked. 

"Why?" 

"  You  look  so  preoccupied." 

"Oh,  it's  nothing!" 

'  Running  from  the  Hague  to  Scheveningen  through  the 
Dunes,  as  opposed  to  the  electric  tram  running  through  the 
Scheveningen  Woods. 

278 


DR.  ADRIAAN  279 

"  You're  out  of  humour." 

"Need  I  say  they  want  Addie  again  at  home?" 

"Who's  ill  this  time?" 

"  Emilie." 

"  Mrs.  van  Raven?" 

"  Yes,  she  calls  herself  Mrs.  van  Naghel  now." 

"  I  know.  She's  the  one  who  ran  away  with  her 
brother,  years  ago." 

"  There  was  rather  a  scandal  about  that,  wasn't 
there?" 

"  People  didn't  exactly  know.   ..." 

"  I  don't  like  her.  She's  ill  every  summer.  Then 
she  becomes  funny.  And  then  she  has  to  see  my 
husband  of  course.  Hence  the  telegram  from 
Mamma." 

"The  other  day  .  .  .  Mrs.  van  der  Welcke 
saw   ..." 

"Saw  what?" 

"  That  I  was  holding  your  hand." 

"  What  about  it?  You're  a  friend.  We've  known 
each  other  for  years,  since  we  were  quite  young. 
.  .  .  Do  you  know,  Mamma  warned  me  against 
you   .    .    ." 

"Against  me?" 

"  She  was  afraid  that  ..." 

"What?" 

"  You  would  fall  in  love  with  mc." 

"  I  am  in  love  with  you." 

"  Now,  Johan,  you're  not  to  say  that." 

"  You  know  I  always  have  been." 

"  You  were  in  love  with  Gerdy." 

"  For  a  minute  only.  .  .  .  With  you  I  have  al- 
ways been  in  love.  Long  ago.  At  our  Cinderella 
dances.    .    .    .   In  love?    I've  always  loved  you." 

"  You  must  not  talk  like  that.  I  ...  I  love 
my  husband." 


28o  DR.  ADRIAAN 

"  Yes,  I  know  you  do.  But  he  doesn't  make  you 
happy." 

She  was  silent.  She  did  not  wish  to  go  on  and 
say  that  she  felt  Addie  so  far  above  her,  unattained 
and  incomprehensible,  that  everything  was  coming 
to  escape  her,  that  her  love  was  escaping  her,  that 
she  felt  herself  sinking  slowly,  slowly,  in  a  vague 
abyss,  that  it  was  only  the  children  who  made  her 
find  Addie  again,  every  day,  for  a  moment.  She 
was  silent.  But  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes.  Her 
healthy  temperament,  now  slightly  unnerved,  had  a 
need  of  much  happiness  for  itself,  even  as  a  healthy 
plant  needs  much  air  and  much  water  and  does  not 
know  what  it  means  to  pine.  The  melancholy  that 
sometimes  overcame  her  was  not  native  to  her. 

"  Let's  take  the  tram,"  she  said.    "  I  feel  tired." 

"  It's  better  for  you  to  walk,"  he  said. 

His  voice  was  authoritative;  and  she  allowed  her- 
self to  be  coerced:  it  was  a  hot  afternoon  and  she 
dragged  herself  along  mechanically  beside  him,  both 
carrying  their  own  rackets. 

"  Mamma's  quite  right,  Johan,"  she  said, 
abruptly.  "  It  won't  do  for  us  to  see  each  other  so 
often,  for  me  to  talk  to  you  so   .    .    .   intimately." 

"  And  why  not,  if  you  feel  unhappy,  if  you  want 
to  unburden  yourself  to  me?  " 

"  No,  no,  it  doesn't  do.  .  .  .  Come,  let's  take 
the  tram:  we  shall  be  too  late  for  our  tennis." 

He  looked  out  mechanically  for  the  tram.  They 
were  at  the  corner  of  the  Waalsdorp  road;  and  he 
said: 

"  Look  here,  walk  a  little  way  with  me.  I  don't 
feel  like  tennis.    Do  you?  " 

She  let  herself  be  dragged  along  and  turned  down 
the  lonely,  green  road.  She  seemed  to  surrender 
feebly  to  his  wishes;  and  she  became  aware  that  she 
was  in  a  profound  state  of  melancholy,  a  hesitation 


DR.  ADRrA'AN  281 

of  not  knowing  things,  of  wavering,  of  feeling  un- 
happy. 

"  Everything  could  have  been  so  different,"  she 
said,  almost  crying. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?    When  ?  " 

"If  Addie   ..." 

"If  he  what?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "  I'm  tired  of  thinking 
about  it.    It  is  not  his  fault." 

"  No,  it's  your  fault." 

"My  fault?  "^ 

"  Yes  I  Nothing  would  keep  you  from  marrying 
him.    .    .    .   And  I  loved  you." 

"You?    But  you  never  asked  me!  " 

"  But  you  knew  that  I  loved  you.  Yes,  everything 
could  have  been  different,  oh,  everything  could  have 
been  so  very  different !  " 

She  suddenly  began  to  cry. 

"Tilly!" 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  sobbing,  "  don't  let  us  talk  like 
this !    Let's  go  to  the  tennis-club." 

"  No,  no,  I  don't  want  to." 

She  turned. 

"Tilly   ..." 
I  "  No,  I  won't  go  any  farther.     I'm  going  to  the 
club.    It'll  distract  me   ...   to  play  tennis." 

She  turned  back;  he  followed  her. 

"  Tilly,  you're  so  unstrung.  If  you  were  a  little 
calmer,  I  should  tell  you   ..." 

"What?" 

"  That  I  can't  bear  to  see  you  unhappy.  Oh,  I 
love  you,  I  love  you !  Let  us  go  away  ...  to- 
gether." 

"Go  away?    Where?" 

"  With  each  other.  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  I  have 
always  loved  you." 

She  stopped  with  a  start: 


282  DR.  ADRIAAN 

"You're  mad!" 

"Why?" 

"  To  suggest  such  a  thing,"  she  said,  with  a  scorn- 
ful laugh.    "  You're  mad.    You  think  that  I   .    .    . " 

"  Want  to  be  unhappy  all  your  life?  " 

*'  That  I  should  consent  to  run  away  with  you. 
I  love  my  husband  .  .  .  and  my  children  .  .  . 
and  you  imagine   ..." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  it  was  mad  of  me  to  suggest  it. 
You  love  your  husband,  not  me.  You  never  allow 
me  anything,  not  anything." 

"Nothing  ...    at  all?"  she  asked,  scornfully. 

"  Nothing  .  .  .  that  counts,"  he  retorted, 
hoarsely,  roughly. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders : 

"  You  men  always  want  .  .  .  that.  Our  happi- 
ness does  not  always  consist  ...   of  that." 

"  No,  but  ...  if  you  loved  me  .  .  .  en- 
tirely  ..." 

"  Johan !  "  she  cried. 

They  crossed  the  bridge  and  entered  the  Woods. 

"  If  you  ever  dare  speak  to  me  like  that 
again.   ..." 

"  Very  well,  I  won't." 

"  But  you're  always  doing  it.  .  .  .  We'd  better 
not  see  each  other  at  all." 

"  Not  see  each  other?  " 

"  No." 

"  I  won't  have  that,"  he  said.  "  I  won't  have  that 
either." 

"And  if  I  insist?" 

"  Even  so." 

"  You  don't  make  me  any  happier  by  talking  like 
that;  you  make  me  even  unhappier  than  I  am." 

"  Oh,  Tilly,  I  can't  bear  to  see  you  unhappy  I 
•..  .    .   What  are  we  to  do,  what  are  we  to  do?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  in  a  dead  voice. 


DR.  ADRIAAN  283 

"  You  don't  care  for  me." 

"  Not  in  that  way.  Why  shouldn't  we  be 
friends?" 

"  That's  nonsense.  Friendship  between  a  man 
and  a  woman?  That's  one  of  those  notions  which 
you  picked  up,  I  dare  say,  at  Driebergen,  among 
neurotic  people.  Between  a  man  and  a  woman 
there's  only  .  .  .  yearning.  I  want  you  and  I  am 
in  hell  because  I  haven't  got  you." 

"Yes,  it's  always  .  .  .  that,"  she  said;  and  she 
thought  of  Addie. 

"  Oh,  if  you  would  only  go  with  me  .  .  .  out  of 
this." 

"  Would  that  make  me  happy?  " 

"  I  should  live  for  you  entirely.  I  have  a  little 
money   ..." 

"That  would  make  me  happy,  would  it?  To 
leave  my  husband,  to  leave  my  children  ?  " 

"  Your  husband,  your  children?  But  I  should  be 
there !  " 

"Yes,  but   ..." 

"  You  don't  care  for  me." 

"  Not  like  that." 

"  All  the  same,  you  would  become  happy.  .  .  . 
You  never  found  happiness  in  your  husband — you 
say  so  yourself — because  you  don't  understand  him. 
You  would  understand  me." 

She  began  to  cry  again : 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  don't  go  on  talking  like  that!  " 

"  Do  you  care  for  me,  Tilly,  do  you  care  for 
me?" 

"  Yes,  Johan,  I  do  care  for  you." 

"Well?" 

She  stood  still: 

"  Listen,"  she  said,  looking  him  straight  in  the 
eyes.  "  I  care  for  you."  Her  voice  sounded  loving 
in  spite  of  herself.     "  I  care  for  you   .    .    .   very 


284  I>R-  ADRIAAN 

much  indeed.  At  this  moment,  perhaps  even  more 
than  for  Addie  .  .  .  I'm  not  quite  sure.  A  time 
may  come  .  .  .  may  come,  when  I  shall  care  for 
you  even  more  .  .  .  certainly  more  than  for 
Addie." 

"Oh,"  he  cried,  "  but  then   ..." 

"  Don't  speak,"  she  said.  "  Listen  to  me.  What 
you're  asking  of  me   ...   I  refuse." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  am  an  honest  woman.  .  .  .  Because 
I  am  naturally  an  honest  woman.  .  .  .  Because  I 
always  mean  to  be  an  honest  woman.  ...  I  could 
never  do  what  you  ask  me  to.  .  .  .  Because,  ,even 
if  I  had  to  say  good-bye  to  my  husband,  I  should 
never,  never  be  willing  to  say  good-bye  to  my 
children." 

"  You  love  your  children  better?  " 

"Better?  I  love  them  in  a  way  which  a  man 
like  you  simply  cannot  understand." 

"Tilly!    Tilly!" 

"  Be  quiet !  .  .  .  There  are  people  coming. 
...    Be  quiet!  " 

"Oh,  Tilly,  what  then?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  dully.  "  Oh,  come 
along  to  the  club ;  we'll  play  some  tennis  I  " 

She  quickened  her  pace ;  he  followed  her,  lurching 
like  a  drunken  man. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

When  Addle  found  the  telegram  he  at  once  took 
the  train  to  Driebergen.  It  was  evening  when  he 
arrived. 

"What's  the  matter  with  Emilie?"  he  asked  his 
mother. 

"  She's  crying  all  day  long,"  said  Constance. 
*'  It's  just  like  last  year." 

He  went  straight  upstairs  to  Emilie's  room  and 
found  her  sobbing,  sobbing  in  Adeline's  arms. 

"  I'm  at  my  wits'  ends  what  to  do  with  her,"  said 
Adeline. 

"  Leave  me  alone  with  her  for  a  moment,  Aunt," 
whispered  Addie.  "  Here,"  feeling  in  his  pocket, 
"  here's  a  letter  from  Guy,  posted  in  New  York. 
You'll  see  that  he  has  found  work,  thanks  to  Mr. 
Brauws'  introduction." 

Adeline  left  the  room;  Emilie  went  on  sobbing. 
She  flung  herself  on  the  floor,  with  her  face  against 
a  chair  and  her  hair  dishevelled,  her  thin  hands 
grasping  the  chair. 

"  Addie  !"  she  cried.    "Addie!    Is  that  you?" 

"  Yes,  Emilie." 

"  Oh,  it's  suff^ocating  me,  it's  suffocating  me ! 
.    .    .   Let  me  tell  you  about  it!    .    .    ." 

He  sat  down  and  she  came  to  him  with  the  move- 
ment of  an  animal  creeping  towards  him.  She  stam- 
mered incoherent  words,  but  he  understood  them: 
he  knew  the  words  of  old;  he  knew  what  she  was 
saying:  it  had  been  the  same  thing  last  year  and 
the  year  before.  At  the  beginning  of  each  summer 
there  was  some  fit  of  madness  which  mastered  her, 

285 


286  DR.  ADRIAAN 

a  fit  in  which  she  lived  all  over  again  through  things 
that  had  happened  in  the  years  long  ago.  Oh,  it 
was  a  terrible  secret  which  she  always  carried  about 
with  her,  which  no  one  knew,  which  no  one  had  ever 
known !  In  the  dark  room,  with  the  closed  sun- 
blinds,  the  secret  stifled  her  and  had  to  be  told, 
because  it  stifled  her  in  her  heart  and  throat. 

"  I  must  tell  it  you,  Addie.  ...  It  was  during 
those  last  days,  those  terrible  days  in  Paris.  Eduard, 
my-  husband,  was  in  Paris  and  .  .  .  and  he  had 
been  threatening  me.  .  .  .  You  remember,  you 
must  remember :  I  told  you  as  much  as  that,  didn't 
I?  .  .  .  He  had  come  to  look  for  me  in  Paris. 
He  hated  me  .  .  .  and  he  hated,  oh,  how  he  hated 
Henri !  ,  .  .  Henri,  my  poor  brother,  my  brother ! 
.  .  .  Addie,  Addie,  let  me  tell  you  everything! 
.  .  .  Whatever  people  may  have  thought,  what- 
ever people  may  have  said,  none  of  it's  true,  it's  all 
false!  He  was  my  brother,  my  own  brother;  and 
I  loved  him  as  a  brother,  though  perhaps  too  much; 
and  he  loved  me  as  a  sister,  though  perhaps  too 
much.  .  .  .  Oh,  people  are  so  wicked,  so  utterly 
wicked!  They  thought,  they  said  ...  As  for 
me,  I  would  never  speak.  Oh,  Addie,  your  parents 
and  you,  your  kindest  and  dearest  of  parents,  never 
asked  me  a  question,  but  took  me  to  live  with  them 
in  their  house,  which  has  become  my  sanctuary,  where 
I  can  lead  my  cloistered  life !  Oh,  Addie,  I  shall 
be  grateful  for  ever  and  ever  to  your  dear  parents 
.  .  .  and  to  you  !  They  never  asked  me  anything, 
they  have  been  like  father  and  mother  to  me ;  I  have 
been  able  to  live  under  their  roof,  though  my  life 
has  been  nothing  but  remorse  and  pain.  .  .  .  Oh, 
Addie,  let  me  tell  you  everything!  .  .  .  Henri 
was  a  clown  in  a  circus — you  know  about  that — 
and  I,  I  made  money  by  painting.  We  lived  .  .  . 
we  lived  together;  we  were  both  of  us  happy;  then 


DR.  ADRIAAN  287 

Eduard  came.  .  .  .  Oh,  he  was  like  an  evil  spirit ! 
Oh,  when  I  dream  of  him  now,  I  dream  of  a  devil! 
Addie,  Eduard  came !  .  .  .  And  it  was  he  .  .  . 
it  was  he   .    .    ." 

"  I  know,  Emilie,  I  know." 

The  words  burst  from  her  in  a  scream : 

*'  It  was  he  ...  he  ...  he  ..  .  who  mur- 
dered Henri !  " 

"  Hush,  Emilie." 

"  Oh,  I  can't  keep  silent,  I  can't  keep  silent  for 
ever;  it  chokes  me,  it  chokes  me,  here!  " 

She  uttered  loud,  hysterical  cries,  twisting  her- 
self against  the  chair;  her  eyes  stared  distractedly 
out  of  her  face;  her  hair  hung  loose  about  her 
cheeks;  her  features  were  pale  and  distorted. 

"  It  was  after  an  evening  when  he  had  been  play- 
ing in  the  circus  .  .  .  and  Eduard  .  .  .  Ed- 
uard  ..." 

"  I  know,  I  know.   .    .    .   Hush,  Emilie !  " 

"  He  waited  for  him  ...  in  the  passage  in 
front  of  the  house  where  we  lived  .  .  .  and  .  .  . 
and  he  called  him  names  .  .  .  they  quarrelled. 
.  .  .  Then  .  .  .  then  he  stabbed  him  .  .  . 
with  a  knife !  " 

"Hush,  Emilie,  hush!" 

But  she  screamed  it  out:  her  screeches  rang 
through  the  room.  She  wriggled  like  a  madwoman 
against  his  knees;  he  stroked  her  dishevelled  hair, 
to  quiet  her. 

"  Oh,  your  parents,  your  dear  parents,  Addie : 
they  never  asked  me  anything!  .  .  .  They  came 
and  fetched  me :  oh,  Addie,  that  journey  home,  with 
his  coffin  between  us,  oh,  those  formahties  at  the 
frontiers!  .  .  .  Oh,  Addie,  your  dear  parents: 
they  saved  me :  I  was  mad,  I  was  mad,  I  was  mad  at 
that  time !  Now  it's  all  coming  back  to  me ;  I  can't 
keep  it  to  myself  any  longer!   .    .    .   You  see,  he 


288  DR.  ADRIAAN 

waited  for  him,  they  began  quarrelling  about  me 
and  .  .  .  suddenly  they  were  like  two  wild  ani- 
mals! Henri  rushed  at  him  .  .  .  and  then 
Eduard  stabbed  him  with  his  knife !'  The  villain, 
the  villain!  He  has  been  missing  since  then;  I  have 
never  seen  him  again;  only  at  night,  at  night  I  see 
him  ivith  his  knife/    Oh,  Addie,  Addie,  help  me  I  " 

He  gripped  her  by  the  arms  with  all  his  might 
and  sought  to  control  her;  but  she  resisted.  She 
was  like  a  madwoman;  in  the  sultry  summer  heat  she 
was  overmastered  by  the  day-long  vision  that  loomed 
up  regularly  with  the  first  balmy  warmth  of  spring. 
She  was  like  a  madwoman;  she  saw  everything  before 
her  eyes;  she  hved  the  past  over  again. 

"  Nobody  has  ever  known,  Addie,  except  you, 
except  you !  " 

"  Hush,  Emilie,  hush !  " 

He  tried  to  look  into  her  eyes,  but  they  avoided 
his.  She  twisted  and  turned  as  though  she  were  in 
the  grasp  of  a  ravisher;  she  dragged  herself  along 
the  floor,  while  his  hand  held  her  arms.  Suddenly 
his  eyes  met  hers  and  he  held  and  pierced  them 
deeply  with  his  grey-blue  glance.  She  fell  back  help- 
lessly against  a  chair;  her  features,  now  relaxed, 
hung  slackly,  like  an  old  woman's;  her  lips  drooped. 
She  lay  huddled  and  moaning,  with  a  monotonous 
moan  of  pain.  Then  she  began  to  shake  her  head, 
up  and  down,  up  and  down,  grating  the  back  of  her 
head  against  the  chair. 

"  Get  up,  Emilie." 

She  obeyed,  let  him  help  her  up,  hung  like  a  rag 
in  his  hands.  She  fell  back  on  her  bed,  with  her 
eyes  closed;  and  he  rang  the  bell.  It  was  Constance 
who  entered. 

"  We  will  undress  her  now.  Mamma;  she's  much 
quieter.    I'll  ring  for  Aunt  Adeline  to  help  you." 

He  rang  again  and  asked  Truitje  to  go  for  Mrs. 


DR.  ADRIAAN  289 

van  Lowe.  But,  as  soon  as  Emilie  felt  the  touch  of 
Constance'  fingers,  she  began  to  moan  anew  and 
opened  her  eyes: 

"  Oh,  Auntie,  Auntie,  you're  a  dear,  you're  a 
dear !    You  never,  never  asked  me !  " 

"  Perhaps  it  will  be  better  to  leave  her  now. 
Mamma,"  whispered  Addie. 

Constance  left  the  room,  promising  to  remain 
within  call  with  Adeline. 

Emilie  lay  on  the  bed,  her  eyes  staring  straight 
before  her,  as  though  she  still  beheld  all  the  horror 
of  the  past;  and  she  went  on  moaning  in  fear  and 
pain : 

"  Addie,  Addie,  it  was  Eduard  ...  it  was 
Eduard  who  murdered  Henri.  .  .  .  Oh,  nobody 
knows,  nobody  knows!  .  .  .  Uncle  and  Aunt 
never  asked  me.  .  .  .  People  at  the  Hague  say 
that  it  was  I  who  made  Eduard  unhappy,  that  that 
is  why  he  has  gone  away,  disappeared.  .  .  .  Per- 
haps I  did,  perhaps  I  did  make  him  unhappy.  .  .  . 
I  don't  know,  I  don't  know.  .  .  .  You  see,  I  didn't 
know  what  I  was  doing  when  I  married  Eduard.  I 
thought  ...  I  thought  it  would  be  all  right,  I 
thought  I  cared  for  him  .  .  .  Ssh,  Addie,  don't 
tell  anybody,  but  I  cared  for  Henri,  for  my  brother, 
only.  I  swear,  it  was  all  quite  beautiful  what  he 
and  I  felt  for  each  other;  there  was  never  anything 
between  us,  never  anything  to  be  ashamed  of !  .  .  . 
But  my  life,  Addie,  my  poor  life,  oh,  my  poor  little 
life  was  quite  wrecked,  because  I  did  not  know, 
because  I  felt  so  strangely,  because  I  fought  against 
the  common  things  of  life,  against  my  marriage, 
against  my  husband,  and  because  all  that  was 
stronger  than  what  I  tried  to  do,  what  I  my- 
self did  not  really  know,  nor  Henri,  nor  Henri 
either!   ..." 

The    heart-broken    lamentation    over    her    life 


290  DR.  ADRIAAN 

moaned  away  in  plaintive  words  and  it  was  as 
though,  after  uttering  herself,  she  sank  into  a  dull 
vacancy,  with  her  eyes  wide  open,  staring  through 
the  room,  as  if  she  still  saw  all  the  things  of  the 
past  but  as  if  they  were  now  vanishing  after  she  had 
uttered  herself.  And  it  was  the  same  every  year: 
each  time  spring  came  round,  the  same  strange, 
mysterious  force  compelled  her  to  tell  it,  to  tell  it 
right  out,  to  tell  all  the  sad  secret  of  her  piteous 
wreck  and  failure  of  a  woman's  life,  she  a  very 
small  soul,  crushed  under  too  great  a  tragedy,  under 
too  great  an  affliction,  something  too  strange,  which 
had  crushed  her  and  yet  not  crushed  her  to  death. 
She  lived  on,  she  had  lived  on  for  years,  living  her 
life  devoid  of  all  interest  and  yet  still  young;  bonds 
seemed  still  to  bind  her  body  and  soul  to  life;  and 
there  was  nothing  left  for  her  except  the  pity  of 
those  who  surrounded  her  and  a  dull  resignation, 
which  only  once,  in  each  year,  as  though  roused  by 
the  warm  torrents  of  spring  or  summer,  burst  forth 
into  a  thunder  of  storm.  ...  It  gathered,  it  gath- 
ered, she  felt  it  threatening  days  beforehand,  as 
though  it  were  bursting  within  her  brain;  during 
those  sleepless  nights  she  lay  with  her  head  clasped 
in  her  hands;  and  it  gathered,  it  gathered:  a  fit  of 
nerves,  a  violent  attack  of  nerves;  and  she  called  for 
Addie,  the  only  one  who  knew;  and  she  told  him, 
she  told  it  him  again;  and,  after  she  had  told  it 
and  had  fallen  asleep  under  his  eyes,  she  woke  a 
little  calmer.  Then,  after  days,  after  long,  slow 
days,  her  quivering  nerves  became  restful;  she  sur- 
rendered herself;  and  that  dull  resignation  wove 
itself  round  her  again,  the  summer  beat  hot  and 
sultry  upon  her,  the  slow  course  of  the  monotonous 
days  dragged  her  on  and  on.  Nobody  talked  of  it 
all;  and  then,  one  evening,  in  the  garden,  she  found 
herself  recovered,  feeling  strange  and  resigned,  limp 


DR.  ADRIAAN  291 

her  hands,  limp  her  arms,  with  poor  Aunt  Adeline 
beside  her,  quite  cheered  and  receiving  a  short  letter 
from  Guy,  while  the  girls  and  Aunt  Constance  put 
Grannie  to  bed  and  then  Klaasje,  that  great  big  girl, 
who  still  always  insisted  on  being  taken  to  bed  .  .  . 
and  while  Uncle  Ernst  wandered  round  the  pond, 
talking  to  himself  .  .  .  and  while  Paul  had  not 
shown  himself  for  three  days,  locking  himself  in  his 
room,  in  the  villa  over  there,  lower  down.   .    .    . 

That  was  how  she  recovered,  as  if  waking  from 
a  hideous  dream;  that  was  how  she  came  to  herself, 
in  the  evening,  sitting  in  the  garden  with  Aunt 
Adeline,  reading  and  rereading  Guy's  letter,  beside 
her.  And  a  little  further  away  sat  Mr.  Brauws  and 
Uncle  Henri :  Uncle  Henri  who  could  not  get  used 
to  Guy's  absence  .  .  .  and  who  fretted  over  it 
sometimes,  with  the  tears  standing  wet  in  his  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

Addie  returned  to  the  Hague  that  evening;  and 
seldom  had  he  felt  so  heavy  and  listless,  as  if  he 
knew  nothing  for  himself.  No,  he  knew  nothing, 
nothing  more  for  his  poor  self,  as  if  he,  as  he  grew 
older,  daily  lost  more  and  more  of  the  knowledge 
that  is  sacredly  imparted  for  a  man's  own  soul,  like 
a  far-lighting  lamp  casts  its  rays  over  the  paths  of 
his  own  destiny  that  lie  dimly  in  the  future.  .  .  . 
Though  he  knew  for  others  so  often  and  so  surely, 
for  himself  he  knew  nothing  nowadays,  nothing. 
Once  he  had  known  himself  to  be  a  dual  personality; 
to-day  he  no  longer  knew  which  of  the  two  he  was. 
He  felt  like  a  prematurely  old  and  decrepit  young 
man,  prematurely  old  and  decrepit  because  life  had 
become  serious  for  him  too  early  and  opened  out  to 
him  too  early,  so  that  he  had  fathomed  it  through 
and  through:  prematurely  old  and  decrepit  because 
his  own  life  later  had  not  trembled  in  the  pure 
balance  of  his  own  twin  forces  of  soul.  He  had  felt 
fettered  to  the  one;  and  it  drew  him  down,  while 
the  other  had  not  the  power  to  lift  him  up  to  the 
height  of  pure  self-realization.   .    .    . 

He  walked  home  from  the  station,  late  in  the 
evening.  He  dragged  himself  along,  his  step  was 
heavy  and  slow;  over  the'  dark  masses  of  the  Wood 
hung  a  sultry,  pearl-grey  summer  night;  the  houses 
in  the  Bezuidenhout  faded  away  white  in  the  evening 
silence.  Light  rain-clouds  dreamed  in  the  sky :  it 
would  doubtless  rain  to-morrow;  and  far  behind 
them  lurked  the  threatening  summer  storm.  For 
the  present  the  evening  sombreness  drifted  on  as 

292 


DR.  ADRIAAN  293 

though  in  hushed  expectation.  Everything  was  still : 
the  trees,  the  houses,  the  clouds.  There  was  hardly 
anyone  about;  a  last  tram  came  rumbling  out  of 
the  distance,  from  Scheveningen ;  and  its  bell  seemed 
to  ring  through  the  space  of  the  evening,  very  far 
behind  him. 

He  walked  on,  dragged  himself  along  past  the 
houses.  He  was  tired  out,  as  he  was  every  time 
that  he  practised  hypnotism;  in  addition  to  this,  it 
always  broke  his  heart  to  leave  Driebergen.  How 
united  he  was  with  everybody  and  everything  there ! 
The  house  was  his  father's  and  his;  the  family  was 
his  mother's  and  his.  As  the  child  of  his  two  parents, 
he  felt  at  home  there,  in  that  great  sombre  house. 
But  he  no  longer  lived  there,  no  longer  worked 
there.  In  the  crudely-bright,  small,  motley-painted 
house  towards  which  he  was  wending,  his  wife 
awaited  him;  and  he  would  find  his  children. 

Healthy  children,  a  healthy  wife :  he  had  all  that. 
What  he  had  longed  for,  in  his  anxiety  at  what  he 
saw  in  his  mother's  family,  he  now  possessed:  a 
healthy  wife  and  healthy  children.  How  they  both 
of  them  loved  the  children;  how  united  they  were, 
where  the  children  were  concerned !  All  their  dif- 
ference arose  from  a  spiritual  misunderstanding,  be- 
cause at  first  they  had  not  known.  .  .  .  Know? 
Did  he  know  now?  Did  he  know  that  he  ought 
never  to  have  taken  a  wife  like  Mathilde?  Did  he 
not  know  that  it  was  his  fault? 

There  was  nothing  else  for  him  to  do  than  to 
continue  the  sacrifice,  all  his  life  long;  but  the 
sacrifice  was  very  heavy :  living  and  working  in  con- 
tradiction to  his  impulses,  in  a  sphere  that  was  not 
his.  It  was  this  that  made  him  ill  and  prematurely 
old.  He  saw  no  future  before  him.  The  sacrifice 
was  killing  something  deep  down  in  himself. 

He  felt  a  sudden  rebellion:  it  was  not  a  man's 


294  DR.  ADRIAAN 

business  to  sacrifice  himself  like  that.  What  was 
done  was  done.  Mathilde  must  accommodate  her- 
self somehow.  He  would  tell  her  that  it  wouldn't 
do,  that  the  Hague  was  killing  him,  that  he  must 
go  back  to  the  house  out  there,  to  the  village,  to  the 
district  where  he  was  of  use  and  able  to  work.  She 
would  have  to  go  with  him. 

But  he  saw  her,  as  a  sacrificial  victim,  offered  up 
for  a  faith  which  she  did  not  share,  because  of  his 
mistake  in  life.  No,  no,  he  could  never  do  it,  could 
never  tell  her  that  the  Hague  was  killing  him,  that 
she  must  accommodate  herself  and  make  the  best  of 
things.  It  was  for  him,  for  him  to  make  the  best 
of  things:  if  he  wished  to  remain  in  any  sense  just, 
he  must  continue  to  sacrifice  himself,  though  it  wore 
him  to  death. 

How  sombre  and  joyless  it  all  was!  How  grey 
it  all  was,  far  and  wide  around  him,  like  the  very 
night  that  hung  pearl-white  close  by  and,  farther 
away,  dug  itself  into  abysses  of  threatening  dark- 
ness! 

As  he  drew  nearer  home,  his  feet  lagged  more 
heavily.  And  suddenly,  before  turning  down  the 
street  in  which  he  lived,  he  dropped  on  to  a  bench 
and  remained  sitting  as  though  paralyzed,  with  his 
head  in  his  hand. 

How  hard  and  heavy  it  was  for  him,  to  have  to  go 
back  like  that  to  his  own  house !  Oh,  to  remain 
sitting,  just  sitting  like  that  until  he  had  attained 
certain  knowledge !    He  closed  his  eyes. 

He  felt  himself  conquered,  overcome.  .  .  .  Sud- 
denly, as  in  a  dream,  voices  struck  upon  his  ear; 
and  he  seemed  to  recognize  the  voices.  He  rose 
mechanically  and,  past  the  houses,  along  the  silent 
pavement,  saw  approaching  the  dark  figures  of  two 
people  walking  slowly,  a  man  and  a  woman.  Their 
voices  sounded  clearly,  though  he  could  not  catch 


DR.  ADRIAAN  295 

the  words;  he  recognized  the  leisurely  forms.  It 
was  Johan  Erzeele  and  Mathilde. 

They  did  not  see  him.  They  walked  on  very 
slowly  and  Addie  followed  behind  them.  Johan 
seemed  to  be  persistently  pleading,  Mathilde  seemed 
to  be  refusing  something.  Addie's  heart  beat  fear- 
fully as  he  followed  after  them;  and  a  jealousy  sud- 
denly flared  up  amid  his  dull  dejection.  Was  she 
not  his  wife,  was  she  not  his  wife?  And  why,  lately, 
was  she  always  looking  for  Johan  and  he  for  her? 
Was  it  not  always  so:  always  these  tennis-parties 
together,  always  meeting  at  friends'  houses  where 
he,  Addie,  never  went?  .  .  .  Where  were  they 
coming  from  now  ?  Where  had  they  been  ?  Was  he 
bringing  her  home?  How  intimate  their  conversa- 
tion sounded,  how  sad  almost!  Had  they  grown 
fond  of  each  other,  in  a  dangerous  increasing  friend- 
ship? 

He  followed  them  unobserved,  almost  glad  to 
have  surprised  them,  suspicious  in  his  jealous  grief. 
Did  not  he  still  love  his  wife,  notwithstanding  their 
deep-seated  differences?  .  .  .  He  slackened  his 
pace  and  followed  very  slowly.  .  .  .  After  his  first 
access  of  jealousy,  he  seemed  rather  to  feel  a  certain 
curiosity  to  observe  in  silence,  to  make  a  diagnosis. 
His  nature  got  the  upper  hand  of  him,  the  nature 
of  one  who  is  born  to  heal  and  who,  before  healing, 
diagnoses  the  disease.  Yes,  jealousy  still  smouldered 
within  him;  but  he  felt  even  more  distinctly  the 
craving  for  knowledge.  Did  he  not  still  love  Ma- 
thilde ?  .  .  .  Ah,  but  was  she  indispensable  to  his 
life? 

That  suddenly  became  clear  to  him :  indispensable 
to  his  life  she  was  not.  .  .  .  His  children,  yes: 
they  belonged  to  all  of  them,  to  all  of  them  yonder, 
in  the  old  house,  the  old  family-house.  She,  his 
wife,  did  not.     His  children  were  indispensable  to 


296  DR.  ADRIAAN 

his  life:  he  felt  that  clearly.  Mathilde,  Mathilde 
was  not.  For  Mathilde,  as  he  now  walked  behind 
her  and  Johan,  he  felt  only  the  curiosity  to  analyze 
and  classify  the  nature  of  the  disease,  nothing  but 
that.  Even  the  jealousy  died  away  in  him,  the  child 
of  his  jealous  parents.  ,  .  .  He  continued  to 
follow  them.  He  saw  Erzeele  put  his  arm  through 
Mathilde's. 

He  now  quickened  his  pace  slightly.  His  heels 
rang  on  the  pavement  through  the  night  air,  regu- 
larly, faster  than  before.  The  two  in  front  looked 
round.    They  gave  a  start.    He  caught  them  up : 

"I  seemed  to  recognize  you  ...  in  the  dis- 
tance," he  said,  calmly  and  naturally,  while  they 
were  unable  to  speak  and  Erzeele  withdrew  his  arm. 
"  I  have  come  from  the  station." 

"  I  didn't  expect  you  till  to-morrow,"  said  Ma- 
thilde, faintly,  in  spite  of  herself. 

*'  I  finished  earlier.  Emilie  is  much  more  peace- 
ful.  .    .    .    How  are  the  children?  " 

"  All  right." 

"  Where  have  you  been  this  evening?  " 

"  I  went  and  had  tea  at  Johan's  sister's.  .  .  . 
Johan  was  seeing  me  home." 

"  But  now  that  Van  der  Welcke's  here  ...  to 
see  you  home   .    .    ."  said  Erzeele. 

"  Not  at  all,"  replied  Addie.  "  Come  a  little  way 
farther." 

They  walked  on,  Mathilde  between  the  two  men. 
Addie  talked  conventionally.  They  hardly  an- 
swered. Meanwhile  he  observed  them.  His  curi- 
osity roused  him,  gave  him  a  sudden  new  interest, 
as  though  he  was  treating  a  case  of  serious  illness. 

"  I'll  say  good-bye  here,"  said  Erzeele,  as  they 
turned  down  the  side-street. 

They  both  shook  hands  with  him  and  walked 
home  more  silently,  suddenly  dragging  their  feet. 


DR.  ADRIAAN  297 

Addie  felt  in  his  pocket  for  the  key: 

"  It's  late,"  he  said,  mechanically. 

*'  Getting  on  for  twelve,"  replied  Mathilde,  dully. 

He  saw  that  her  eyes  were  red  with  weeping. 
He  said  nothing.  They  went  upstairs  without 
speaking.  On  reaching  the  nursery,  they  both  crept 
in  for  a  moment  on  tip-toe  and  looked  into  the  little 
cots.  The  nurse  was  sleeping  in  the  next  room,  with 
the  door  open  between.  They  exchanged  a  smile, 
because  the  babies  were  sleeping  so  prettily.  Then 
they  went  to  Mathilde's  bedroom.  Once  they  had 
crossed  the  threshold,  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  they 
were  strangers. 

"  I'm  tired,"  said  Mathilde. 

"  So  am  I,"  said  Addie. 

He  kissed  her,  left  her  and  went  to  his  own  bed- 
room. Through  the  closed  door  he  could  follow 
her  movements,  heard  her  undressing,  heard  the 
rustle  of  her  clothes.  He  sank  into  a  chair  and 
stared  in  front  of  him  : 

"  I  know,"  he  thought,  with  his  eyes  very  wide. 
"  She  loves  him  and  he  loves  her.  I  .  .  .  I  no 
longer  love  her.  .  .  .  She  has  never  been  indis- 
pensable to  my  existence.  ...  I  made  a  mistake. 
I  did  not  know  for  myself.    ..." 

He  did  not  sleep  that  night.  Next  morning  early 
he  said  to  Mathilde : 

"  Tilly,  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"What  about?" 

"  About  ourselves." 

She  raised  her  eyebrows  impatiently: 

"What  for?"  she  asked.  "We  have  had  that 
sort  of  talk  so  often.  It  leads  to  nothing.  It  tires 
me. 

"  Yes,  you're  looking  tired  .  .  .  and  ill.  You're 
not  happy." 

"  Oh,  never  mind  my  happiness !  " 


298  DR.  ADRIAAN 

"  But  what  else  did  we  come  here  for,  Tilly,  except 
your  happiness?  " 

"  That's  true,"  she  said,  without  interest.  "  You 
did  it  for  my  sake.     It  was  nice  of  you." 

"  But  it  did  no  good." 

"  No,  it  did  no  good.  And  it  would  be  bet- 
ter .    .    ." 

"What?" 

"  For  you  to  go  back  to  Driebergen,  Addie." 

"  I  agree,"  he  said,  gently. 

She  started: 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  I  was  thinking  the  same  thing." 

"What?" 

"  That  I  ought  to  go  back  to  Driebergen." 

She  looked  at  him  in  surprise : 

"And  I?"  she  asked. 

"  You  remain  here   .    .    .   with  the  children." 

"  I  don't  understand." 

"  You  stay  in  the  Hague  .  .  .  you  and  the 
children." 

"And  you?" 

"  I'll  go  down  there." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  she  repeated. 

"I  mean  what  I  say,  Tilly,"  he  said.  "It  is 
better  ..." 

"What?" 

"  That  we  should  separate." 

"Separate?" 

"  Perhaps.     For  a  longer  or  shorter  period." 

She  stared  at  him: 

"  Do  you  want  a  divorce?  " 

"  I  think  so." 

She  continued  to  stare  at  him  and  choked  down 
her  tears: 

"  Addie,  do  you  no  longer  love  me?  " 

"  No,"  he  said,  gently. 


DR.  ADRIAAN  299 

She  looked  deep  in  his  eyes,  affronted : 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  That  I  don't  love  you,  any  longer,  enough  to 
live  with  you.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Tilly,  if  I  have 
spoilt  your  life,  if  I  have  shattered  your  life.  I 
have  spoilt  and  shattered  it.  I  beg  your  pardon 
...   if  you  can  forgive  me." 

"  Only  a  little  while  ago  .  .  .  you  told  me  that 
you  cared  for  me." 

"  I  thought  so  at  the  time  ...  It  seemed  to 
mean  so  much  to  me." 

"And  now?" 

"  Now  I  don't." 

She  rebelled  with  injured  pride : 

'*  Then  why  did  you  ask  me  to  marry  you?  " 

"  Yes,  that  was  just  it." 

"Just  what?" 

"  The  mistake.  .  .  .  Tell  me,  do  you  still  love 
me?" 

"  No,"  she  said,  proudly. 

"  So  you  see:  it's  better    ..." 

"  That  we  should  be  divorced." 

"  Don't  you  think  so  yourself?  " 

"  And  the  children?  "  she  asked. 

"  That's  my  punishment,"  he  said,  gently.  "  They 
will  remain  with  you." 

"  You  entrust  them  to  me?  " 

"  I  do." 

"  Addie !  "  she  cried,  with  a  sob. 

"  You  still  love  me  a  little,  Tilly  .    .    . " 

She  only  sobbed. 

"  But  not  so  much  as  you  did,"  he  assured  her. 
"  You  are  in  love  with  Erzeele." 

"Erzeele?" 

"Yes." 

"  He  is  a  friend." 

"  He  may  become  more   .    .    .   later,"  he  forced 


300      .  DR.  ADRIAAN 

himself  to  say,  uncleansed  as  yet  of  jealousy,  be- 
cause she  was  still  his  wife. 

"  Addie,"  she  said,  "  I  am  to  blame.     If  I  could 
only   have   got  accustomed  to   things,   like   all   of 
you,   at    Driebergen    ...    I    should    have    been 
happy." 
'    "  Yes,  but  it  is  not  your  fault  that  you  couldn't." 

"  I  don't  want  a  divorce,"  she  said. 

"Why  not?" 

"  For  my  sake   .    .    .   and  the  children's." 

"The  children's?" 

"  For  their  sake  especially.     No,  Addie,  I  don't 
want  it.    Unless   ..." 

"What?" 

"  Unless  you  want  it   .    .    .   for  your  own  sake, 
to  be  free,  to  marry  somebody  else." 

"  No." 

"  Then  I  don't  want  it  either.     If  you  assure 
me   .    .    . 

"  I  do  assure  you." 

"  Then  I  don't  want  it  either." 

"  And  Erzeele  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head.    "  It's  not  as 
people  say." 

"What  do  they  say?" 

"  That  he  is  my  lover.    He's  not  that." 

"  I  never  supposed  he  was." 

"  I  value  his  friendship   .    .    .  but  I  could  not  be 
his  wife." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  I  am  your  wife." 

"Do  you  feel  that?" 

"  Always." 

"  My  poor  child !  "  he  said,  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  Why  do  you  pity  me?  "  she  asked,  proudly. 

"  Because  I  have  done  you  a  wrong.     Because  I 
am  unable  to  atone." 


DR.  ADRIAAN  301 

*'  You  have  done  me  no  wrong.  We  loved  each 
other  very  much  .  .  .  then.  At  that  time  .  .  . 
I  thought  I  understood  you.  Now  I  no  longer 
understand  you.  You  breathe  too  rarefied  an  air 
for  me." 

"No,  it  isn't  that.    But  ..." 

"What?" 

"  Nothing.  So,  Tilly,  you  don't  want  us  to  be 
divorced." 

She  looked  at  him  anxiously : 

"  No,"  she  entreated. 

"  Well,  dear,  then  we  won't  be,"  he  said,  gently. 
"  Only  .  .  .  our  present  life  .  .  .  is  no  life  at 
all.    So  it  will  be  better  if   ..." 

"If  what?" 

"  If  I  don't  stay  with  you,  if  I  go  away." 

"And  I?"  ^ 

"  You  remain  here,  in  this  house,  where  every- 
thing is  as  you  like  it.  You  stay  .  .  .  with  our 
children." 

"  Our  .    .    .   our  children,"  she  stammered. 

"  Perhaps  later  ..." 

"What?" 

"  Because  of  our  children,  we  shall  come  together 
again  .  .  .  when  all  misunderstanding  has  disap- 
peared." 

"  I  don't  follow  you." 

"  Perhaps  you  will  later.  But  perhaps  also 
.  .  .  you  will  become  so  fond  of  Erzeele  .  .  . 
that  ..." 

She  shook  her  head,  stared  before  her. 

"  We  never  know,"  said  Addie,  gently. 

"  No,"  she  said,  pensively.  "  I  know  nothing 
.  .  .  nothing  now.  I  used  to  think  .  .  .  that 
you  knew  everything." 

"  I  do  sometimes  know  things  .  .  .  for  others. 
I  have  not  known  for  myself." 


302  DR.  AD^IAAN 

"And  now?" 

"  Now  I  know  better   .    .    .   for  you." 

"Forme?" 

"  Yes,  now  I  know,  Tilly  .  .  .  that  it  is  better 
for  you   .    .    .   that  I  should  leave  you   ..." 

"For  good?" 

"  Perhaps.  Perhaps  for  a  long  time  .  .  . 
only   ..." 

"And  the  children?  Won't  you  be  longing  for 
them?" 

It  was  more  than  he  could  bear;  and  he  said 
nothing,  only  nodded  yes.    Then  he  said : 

"  But  they  will  be  all  right  .  .  .  with  you, 
Tilly." 

It  was  more  than  she  could  bear  either.  She  fell 
into  a  chair,  sobbing. 

"  Don't  be  unhappy,  Tilly,"  he  said.  "  We  must 
make  a  change.  If  we  remain  as  we  are,  we  shall 
end  by  hating  each  other.  .  .  .  Don't  be  unhappy 
about  parting  .  .  .  when  you  reflect  .  .  .  that 
it  is  really  out  of  the  question  for  us  to  remain 
together." 

"You  are  right,"  she  said,  coldly.    "  So   .    .    ." 

"  You  will  stay  here.  You  will  live  here.  That 
is,  if  you  like." 

"And  you?" 

"I?    I  shall  go  home." 

She  felt  her  jealousy  of  all  of  them,  out  there : 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  gently. 

"  If  you  don't  love  me,"  she  burst  out,  "  they  will 
not  need  to  console  you  long." 

"  I  shall  feel  regret  .  .  .  because  I  have  spoilt 
your  life  .  .  .  and  because  I  sha'n't  see  the  child- 
ren any  more." 

"  Spoilt  my  life?  "  she  said,  proudly.  "  You  have 
not  done  that." 

He  did  not  answer. 


DR.  ADRIAAN  303 

"The  children?"  she  continued.  "Why  should 
you  not  see  them   .    .    .   when  you  want  to?  " 

"  Would  you  allow  that?  " 

"Allow  it?  They  are  your  children.  I  have 
nothing  to  say  in  the  matter.    In  fact   .    .    . " 

"In  fact?" 

"  I  should  not  think  it  right  ...  if  you  did  not 
see  them  often." 

"  Then  I  shall  come." 

"  Of  course.  .  .  .  But  to  go  on  living  here 
.    .    .  would  be  too  expensive." 

"  No,  not  at  all.  I  ...  I  shall  want  nothing 
.    .    .   out  there.    Whatever  I  make  is  yours," 

"  I  can't  accept  it." 

"  Yes,  you  can  .  .  .  for  the  children.  It's 
better,  Tilly,  that  everything  should  remain  as  it  is." 

"  Very  well,"  she  consented.  "  Only,  Addie 
.    .    .   it's  not  a  solution." 

"  There  can  be  no  solution  .  .  .  until  you  know 
that  you  care  enough  for  Johan  Erzeele   ..." 

"No,  no,  I  don't!" 

"  That  you  care  enough  for  Johan  Erzeele 
to   .    .    ." 

"  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know  .  .  .  and  I  refuse 
to  discuss  it." 

"  I  understand  that,  Tilly.  Then  .  .  .  there 
can  be  no  solution  yet,  can  there?  We  know  no- 
thing about  a  solution.  I  am  simply  giving  you  back 
your  life,  as  far  as  I  can,  and  you  are  doing  the 
same  to  me.  Later  we  will  see  what  happens.  It 
will  all  come  of  itself.  What  do  we  know?  We 
know  nothing  .  .  .  for  ourselves.  Knowledge  will 
all  come  of  itself.    Do  you  understand?  " 

"No." 

"  You  will,  later.  .  .  .  You  will  live  here,  with 
the  children;  you  will  see  me  hardly  at  all.  I  shall 
not  see  the  children  for  a  time.    It  will  be  as  though 


304 


DR.  ADRIAAN 


I  were  on  a  journey.  They  are  so  small :  oh,  I  hope 
that  they  won't  miss  me  and  that,  when  they  do  see 
me  again,  they  will  know  me!  .  .  .So  you  will 
be  alone  .  .  .  with  the  children  ...  It  may  be 
that  you  will  want  me  back  then,  that  the  former 
love  will  return.  ...  In  my  case  too,  perhaps. 
.  .  .  We  shall  see.  It  will  ...  it  will  all  come 
of  itself  and  we  ...  we  know  nothing.  ... 
Perhaps,  in  years  to  come,  we  shall  be  living 
quietly  together  again  .  .  .  with  the  children.  Or 
else   ..." 

"What?" 

"  Or  else  you  will  be  far  away  from  me  .  .  . 
and  will  have  found  your  happiness  with  another." 

She  put  her  hands  before  her  eyes : 

"  I  don't  see  it.   .    .    .   I  don't  know.   ..." 

"  Now  you  are  being  honest.  No,  you  don't 
know  if  you  will  come  to  care  so  much  as  that  for 
Johan.  .  .  .  And  I  ...  I  will  be  honest  too! 
I  don't  know  if  I  shall  ever  care  for  you  again. 
.  .  .  But  we  must  wait,  Tilly;  and  the  best  thing 
therefore  is  to  leave  each  other  and  .  .  .  and  not 
to  talk  to  each  other  again  until  it  has  come  of  itself 
and  until  we  know.  .  .  .  You  will  not  be  alone  in 
the  world;  for,  if  ever  I  can  do  anything  for  you, 
I  will  come  to  you.    I  shall  never  forget  you." 

"  Yes,  perhaps  that  will  be  best,"  she  said,  in  a 
dead  voice.  *'  I  shall  try  to  look  at  it  like  that  .  .  . 
and  to  live  alone  .  .  .  with  the  children.  I  shall 
not  see  Johan  again." 

"  No,  no,  on  the  contrary:  you  must  see  him." 

"Why?" 

"  So  as  to  know.    You  will  never  be  weak" 

"  No,  I  shall  never  be  that." 

"  You  know  how  he  feels  towards  you." 

"  How  do  you  know?  " 

"  I  know  you  do.   .    .    .   You  know  what  he  feels 


DR.  ADRIAAN  305 

for  you.  But  you  do  not  know  what  you  feel  for 
him." 

"Addle!    Oh,AddieI" 

"  Don't  deny  it.  Be  honest.  These  are  the  last 
words,  perhaps,  that  we  shall  exchange  for  quite  a 
long  time.     I  am  going  away  now." 

*'Now?" 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  Write  to  me  when  there's  any  oc- 
casion." 

"  Very  well." 

"  Good-bye,  Tilly." 

She  was  silent,  sat  staring  before  her,  with  her 
hands  clasped  over  her  knees.  No,  she  did  not 
understand  him,  but  she  could  not  act  otherwise  than 
he  wished. 

He  was  gone;  and  suddenly  she  felt  very  lonely. 
She  heard  him  upstairs  packing,  rummaging  in  his 
cupboards. 

And  she  began  to  reflect,  sadly: 

*'  He  acts  differently  and  speaks  differently  from 
anybody  else.  Divorced?  Oh,  no,  I  don't  want 
that  .  .  .  if  he  doesn't  want  it  for  himself !  .  .  . 
I  ...  at  least  .  .  .  not  yet.  .  .  .  No,  no,  nor 
ever.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know !  .  .  . 
I  am  fond  of  Johan.  .  .  .  If  I  were  free  now,  if 
I  were  a  girl  still.  .  .  .  But  Addie,  the  children. 
...  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know.  .  .  .  That 
was  why  Addie  thought  it  would  be  well  .  .  .  for 
us  not  to  see  each  other  .  .  .  for  a  time.  How 
he  will  miss  the  children!  .  .  .  Oh  dear,  is  he 
really,  really  going?  Yes,  I  hear  him  upstairs  .  .  . 
packing.  .  .  .  What  will  people  say?  Not  that  it 
matters.  We  can  say  that  he  has  to  read,  quietly, 
out  there  ...  at  Driebergen.  .  .  .  We  can  tell 
people  something  of  the  kind  .  .  .  even  if  they  do 
understand.  ...  I  simply  can't  go  back  to  Drie- 
bergen.  .    .    .   Oh,  how  will  it  work  out,  how  will 


3o6  DR.  ADRIAAN 

it  all  work  out?  That  Is  just  what  Addie  doesn't 
know  either.  .  .  .  Do  I?  No,  Heaven  help  me, 
I  don't  know  any  more  than  he  does!  ...  I  am 
fond  of  Johan:  shall  I  grow  fonder  of  him,  now 
that  I  am  less  fond  of  Addie  ?  I  don't  know,  I  don't 
know.  .  .  .  Oh,  if  only  I  hadn't  my  children! 
.  .  .  As  it  is,  I  could  wish,  my  God,  how  I  could 
wish,  for  his  sake  and  the  children's,  that  I  knew 
how  to  be  happy  at  Driebergen,  in  that  house  of 
theirs,  with  all  of  them,  and  that  I  could  go 
back  to  it!  Shall  I  ever  go  back  to  It?  .  .  . 
Shall  I  be  Johan's  wife  one  day,  after  all? 
.  .  .  Oh,  it  is  all  so  dark  and  uncertain!  .  .  . 
Addie  says  a  solution  will  come  of  itself.  .  .  . 
We  know  nothing,  he  says.  .  .  .  Must  I  let  it 
come  as  it  will?  .  .  .  But  how  will  it  come? 
.  .  .  Oh,  even  Addie,  who  is  so  wise,  can  find  no 
solution!  .  .  .  There  is  .  .  .  there  is  no  solu- 
tion yet !  .  .  .  Will  there  ever  be  one  ?  .  .  .  Oh, 
if  I  could  go  back  ...  to  the  house  down  there ! 
.  .  .  Should  I  ever  be  able  to?  Perhaps  years 
hence !  Perhaps  never !  Who  can  tell  ?  .  .  .Is 
Johan  .  .  .  really  fond  of  me  ?  Not  only  because 
he  admires  me  .  .  .  not  only  for  that?  .  .  .  Oh, 
that  was  the  only  reason  why  Addie  loved  me  I 
...  I  know  it  now,  I  know  it:  that  was  his  one 
idea,  to  have  healthy  children.  .  .  .  Now  we  are 
parted:  parted  for  ever?  ...  Or  shall  we  come 
together  again  one  day?  Shall  we  ever  become  hus- 
band and  wife  again  ...  or  not?  ...  I  do 
care  for  Johan.  He  is  so  matter-of-fact,  so  simple : 
I  should  have  become  very  happy  and  simple  with 
him,  without  all  this  thinking  about  things  which 
I  can't  grasp  or  feel  .  .  .  and  which  came  haunt- 
ing me  down  there,  at  Driebergen,  gradually.  .  .  . 
Oh,  If  I  could  only  force  myself  to  live  there  again ! 
,.    .    .   But  perhaps  I  never  can!    Perhaps,  in  three 


DR.  ADRIAAN  307 

or  four  years'  time,  I  shall  be  Johan's  wife  .  .  . 
and  have  to  give  up  the  children,  the  poor  children, 
toAddlel   ..." 

Now  she  sobbed,  because  she  did  not  know.  The 
days  and  months  would  drift  past  slowly  and  slowly 
before  she  knew.   .    .    . 

There  is  a  sacred  knowledge  for  ourselves,  a 
knowledge  so  sacred  that  we  know  it  only  .  .  . 
when  the  future  is  here.   .    .    . 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

The  months  drifted  by. 

"  It  is  strange,"  said  Brauws,  "  that  we  haven't 
heard  from  Addie  lately." 

"  How  long  is  it  since  we  did?  "  asked  Constance, 
vaguely. 

"  Nearly  a  week." 

"  Yes,  it  must  be  close  upon  a  week." 

"  His  last  letters  were  brighter." 

'*  Do  you  think  the  travelling  is  doing  him  good?  " 

"  He  doesn't  travel  as  another  man  would.  In 
the  three  months  that  he  has  been  away   ..." 

"  Yes,  he  will  have  learnt  a  good  deal  that  will 
be  useful  to  him   ...   in  his  profession." 

"  His  letters  were  cheerful." 

"  I'm  longing  badly  to  see  him  again.  .  ;..  . 
Listen  to  the  wind !  " 

"  That's  the  autumn  coming." 

"  The  summer  is  past.  This  is  our  typical 
weather.  Look,  here,  out  of  my  window,  you  can 
see  the  clouds  coming  up  over  the  moor  as  you  never 
do  downstairs,  because  the  trees  in  the  garden  hide 
all  the  view." 

'*  Up  here  it  reminds  me  sometimes  of  the  Hague, 
in  the  Kerkhoflaan." 

"  But  it's  wider,  wider  ..." 

"  And  finer." 

"  There,  they're  coming  up,  the  clouds.  .  .  . 
That  must  be  rain.  .  .  .  They're  all  grey  and  dark 
purple :  I  have  never  seen  such  purple  as  in  our  skies 
down  here." 

"  You're  able  to  live  under  them  now." 
308 


DR.  ADRIAAN  309 

"  Now  I  am.  But  it  took  so  long  .  .  .  that  I 
had  to  get  old  first.  I'm  old  now  and  it's  all  right 
now.  .  .  .  Look,  look:  the  clouds  are  drifting 
along.   .    .    .   That  means  storm   ..." 

"  For  days  on  end." 

"  Oh,  I  am  yearning  for  Addie !  .  .  .  How  long 
is  it  since  we  saw  him?  Three  months,  isn't  it? 
.  .  .  Three  months !  What  an  age !  .  .  .  We 
are  all  yearning  for  him.    ..." 

"  His  father  is  counting  the  days  till  he  returns. 
.    .    .   Poor  Hans!" 

*'  Poor  Henri !  .  .  .  Even  Mamma  was  asking 
the  other  day,  where  Addie  was." 

"  She  always  knows  him." 

"  Ernst  and  Paul  can't  get  on  without  him." 

"  And  he  has  an  excellent  influence  on  Alex :  the 
boy's  doing  very  well." 

**  Yes,  he's  grown  so  calm  and  manly  .  .  .  lat- 
terly." 

"  Guy's  letters  are  satisfactory,  are  they  not?  " 

"  Yes.  It's  kind  of  you,  Brauws,  to  take  so  much 
interest  ...   in  all  of  us." 

"  Well,  I'm  living   .    .    .   with  you  all." 

"  You  belong  to  us." 

"  It  is  like  one  family." 

"  Family.  .  ,  .  Yes,  there  is  such  a  thing  as 
family.  In  the  old  days,  I  often  used  to  think  that 
it  was  just  a  word." 

"  No,  it's  there,  only   ..." 

*'  Yes,  I  understand  what  you  mean.  .  .  .  Some- 
times it  does  not  begin  to  take  shape  until  we  our- 
selves are  no  longer  young.  ...  It  was  there  for 
Mamma,  whereas  for  us,  at  that  time  .  .  .  But 
for  Mamma  it  was  an  illusion  and   ..." 

"  For  us   .    .    ,   it  is  indeed  a  reality   ..." 

"  In  so  far  that  we  think  so  .  .  .we  old 
people." 


3IO  DR.  ADRIAAN 

"  No,  no,  it  is  so." 

"  I  am  quite  willing  to  believe  it  is.  .  .  .  Yes. 
..    .    .   Addie  ought  soon  to  be  home  again." 

"And  then?" 

"  I  think   ...   he  will  stay  here.'' 

"AndMathilde?" 

"  There  .    .    .   with  the  children." 

"  That  is  not  a  solution." 

"No,  but  Addie  says   ..." 

"  That  it  will  have  to  come   ..." 

"Later,  of  itself." 

"I  dare  say  he's  right.    .    .    .   How  is  she?" 

"Reconciled  .  .  .  more  reconciled.  .  .  .  Psaw 
her  the  other  day." 

"  Don't  leave  her  to  herself." 

"  No,  we  are  not  doing  that.  .  .  .  It's  not  her 
fault.    And  she  is  a  good  mother  to  her  children." 

"  As  you  say,  it's  not  her  fault." 

"  Nor  Addie's  either.  It's  our  fault:  Henri's  and 
mine." 

"Why?" 

"  I  don't  know,  I  feel  it  is.  It's  all  our  fault. 
It's  still  the  punishment  dragging  along." 

"No,  no!" 

"  Yes,  it  is.  Our  child  was  doomed  not  to  be 
happy  .    .    .   because  of  us." 

"  No." 

"  You  know  quite  well  that  you  too  .  .  .  look 
on  it  like  that." 

"  Not  entirely.  .  .  .  If  he  had  had  certain  un- 
derstanding for  himself  ."   .    ." 

"  He  couldn't,  because   ..." 

"  Hush !  Say  no  more  on  that  subject.  .  .  . 
There  is  a  knowledge  .  .  .  which  is  so  sa- 
cred .  .  .  Which  of  us  has  that  certain  under- 
standing for  himself?  .  .  .  We  all  just  let  it 
come.    ..." 


DR.  ADRIAAN  311 

"  Look  how  dark  it's  growing." 

"  Here  comes  the  rain." 

"  It's  lashing  against  the  windows." 

"  Strange  that,  even  in  this  weather,  the  house 
and  this  room  don't  seem  sombre   ...   to  me." 

"  There  is  an  air  of  so  much  affection  in  the 
house.  ...  If  Addie  would  only  come!  If  he 
would  only  come  now!  .  .  .  Tell  me,  Brauws, 
what  is  your  opinion?  What  will  be  the  end  of  it? 
Will  they  ever  go  back  to  each  other?  " 

"Possibly   .    .    .   later.   ..." 

"  You  can't  say  it  positively?  " 

"Oh,  no!" 

"  Do  you  think  that  she  cares  for  Erzeele?" 

"  It's  difficult  to  say." 

"  She  doesn't  know,  herself.  Only  the  other  day 
she  told  me  so  herself:  she  herself  doesn't  know. 
.    .    .   Will  the  children  prevent  her?  " 

"Who  can  say?" 

"Is  it  right  .  .  .  that  Addie  should  let  things 
decide  themselves?  " 

"  Perfectly  right." 

"  Say  that  .  .  .  say  that  again.  I  sometimes 
doubt.  Is  It  right  that  Addie  should  let  things  decide 
themselves?" 

"  Yes,  I  am  firmly  persuaded  that  it  Is  right." 

"  Is  she   .    .    .   strong  enough?  " 

"  I  think  so  ...  in  that  way  ...  of  course 
she  mustn't  sit  still,  with  her  hands  folded.  .  .  . 
She  will  have  to  find  herself." 

"  Oh,  if  she  could  only  feel  in  sympathy  with  all 
of  us !  .  .  .  //  she  ever  comes  back,  I  swear  that 
I  shall  .    .    ." 

"What?" 

"  Nothing.  I  was  thinking.  .  .  .  Then  I  begin 
to  hope  that  she  and  all  of  us  will  feel  alike.  .  .  . 
And,  strangely  enough,  I  see  that  in  everything.    We 


312  DR.  ADRIAAN 

all  want  it.  //  she  comes  back,  I  am  almost  sure 
that  we  shall  all  .  .  .  do  a  great  deal  ...  to 
make  her  ours   ..." 

"  And  to  make  her  happy  ..." 

"  //  she  comes  back.  .  .  .  How  delightful  it 
would  be,  if  she  came  back  .  .  .  with  the  child- 
ren." 

"Delightful?" 

"  I  mean  .  .  .  yes,  I  mean  delightful.  .  .  . 
Lives  that  have  once  been  interlaced   ..." 

"  Are  bad  to  pull  apart.  I  agree.  .  .  .  And 
Hans?" 

"  Oh,  even  he   .    .    .   even  he  will  try !  " 

"Who  knows?  Perhaps  one  day  it'll  be  like 
that." 

"  For  the  present,  there's  nothing  to  be  said." 

"  No,  nothing." 

"  It's  all  still  mystery  and  darkness." 

"  Listen  to  the  rain." 

"  The  sky  is  black." 

"  What's  the  time  ?  " 

"  Almost  dinner-time." 

"  There  goes  the  bell." 

"  Shall  we  go  downstairs?  " 

They  went  down  the  dark  staircase.  The  wind 
howled  round  the  house.  The  old  lady  was  sitting 
at  the  window  of  the  conservatory  at  the  back  when 
Constance  and  Brauws  entered. 

"  It's  blowing  hard,"  she  said.  "  There  are  great 
branches  falling  from  the  trees  in  the  garden." 

"  Aren't  you  too  cold  In. here,  Mamma?  " 

The  old  woman  did  not  understand;  and  Con- 
stance put  a  shawl  over  her  shoulders : 

"  Will  you  come  in.  Mamma,  when  you  feel  too 
cold?" 

The  old  woman  nodded,  without  understanding. 
She  remained  sitting  where  she  was.     She  had  al- 


DR.  ADRIAAN  313 

ready  had  something  to  eat,  with  Marietje  to  wait 
on  her:  she  never  sat  down  to  table  with  the 
others. 

The  second  bell  rang. 

"  Come,"  said  Constance. 

Paul  was  there  and  noticed  how  miserable  Van 
der  Welcke  looked : 

"  What's  the  matter?  "  he  asked. 

Van  der  Welcke  was  carving : 

"  I  loathe  carving,"  he  said.  "  Addie  always  used 
to  do  it,  or  Guy." 

"  I  never  learnt  how,"  said  Paul,  secretly  fearing 
the  gravy. 

"  Give  it  to  me,  Hans,"  said  Brauws. 

They  were  silent  round  the  table ;  the  wind  howled 
outside. 

"  The  gas  is  burning  badly,"  said  Constance. 

"  How  nice-looking  Mary  is  growing  now  that 
she's  down  here !  "  said  Paul.  "  There,  you  needn't 
go  blushing:  your  old  uncle  may  surely  pay  you  a 
compliment." 

"  Well,  Uncle  Paul,  Pm  not  as  young  as  all  that 
myself:  Pm  getting  on  for  thirty." 

"  And  you,  Klaasje,"  said  Paul,  "  you're  eating 
like  a  grown-up  person." 

"  I  do  eat  nicely  now,  don't  I,  Auntie  ? "  said 
Klaasje,  proudly. 

Constance  nodded  to  her  with  a  smile. 

"  Only  Gerdy  .  .  .  she's  not  doing  well," 
thought  Paul.  "  How  pale  she  looks !  .  .  .  Ah, 
well !  Perhaps  it'll  all  come  right  later  for  the  poor 
child.  .  .  .  He  or  another.  .  .  .  Love,  it's  a 
strange  thing:  I  never  felt  it." 

He  felt  a  shiver  pass  through  him  and  said : 

"  It's  cold  to-day,  Constance." 

*'  Yes.    We  shall  start  fires  to-morrow." 

"  It's    blowing    bitterly    outside.     And    what    a 


314  DR.  ADRIAAN 

draught!  Vm  sure  there's  a  draught  in  the  house! 
What  do  you  say,  Ernst?  " 

Ernst  looked  up : 

"  There's  no  draught,"  he  said.  "  I'm  quite 
warm.  You  people  are  always  feeling  things  that 
don't  exist" 

"Why  is  it  so  dark  to-day?"  asked  Adeline,  as 
though  waking  from  a  dream. 

"  The  gas  is  burning  badly,"  said  Constance. 

"  Truitje,"  said  Van  der  Welcke,  "  take  the  key 
and  see  that  the  meter  is  turned  on  full." 

"  Grandmamma  was  very  tired  to-day,"  said 
Marietje. 

"  Grandmamma  hardly  ate  anything  at  all,"  said 
Adeletje. 

"  She's  getting  very  old,"  said  Constance,  sadly. 

The  meal  dragged  on.  They  exchanged  only  an 
occasional  word. 

"  We're  very  cosy,  among  ourselves,  like  this," 
said  Constance,  fondly.  "  Oh,  I  wish  that  Dorine 
would  come  and  live  here  too !  " 

"  Nothing  will  induce  her  to,"  said  Paul. 

"  No,  I'm  afraid  not." 

A  carriage  drove  up  outside,  drove  through  the 
garden. 

*'  Hark!  "  said  Constance. 

"  It's  Addie!  "  said  Van  der  Welcke. 

"  But  he  never  wired  1  " 

Gerdy  had  got  up :  she  rushed  outside,  leaving 
the  door  open.  A  cold  draught  blew  in.  They  all 
rose.    The  bell  had  rung;  Truitje  opened  the  door. 

"Oh,  Addie,  Addie!"  Gerdy  exclaimed.  "Is 
that  you?  Have  you  come  back  at  last?  We  have 
missed  you  so  frightfully !  " 

It  was  he.  She  flung  herself  into  his  arms  and 
embraced  him,  with  a  little  sob. 

They  all  welcomed  him  home;  they  no  longer 


DR.  ADRIAAN  315 

noticed  the  draught,  no  longer  heard  the  wind. 
They  hardly  ate  anything  now,  hurriedly  finishing 
their  dinner. 

"  Come  into  the  drawing-room,"  said  Constance, 
"  it's  warmer  there.  I  don't  know  why  the  dining- 
room  should  be  so  chilly." 

"  We'll  set  the  stove  going  to-morrow,"  said  Van 
der  Welcke. 

His  face  had  brightened  up  out  of  recognition. 

"  Let's  see  how  you're  looking,  old  chap." 

He,  the  father,  was  so  much  excited  that  the  tears 
came  to  Addie's  eyes.  The  others  left  the  two  of 
them  together  in  the  drawing-room  with  Van  der 
Welcke  while  in  the  dimly-lighted  dining-room  the 
old  woman  seemed  to  be  asleep. 

"  How  are  you,  my  boy?  " 

"  Very  well  indeed,  Dad." 

"And  now   .    .    .   you're  staying  here?" 

"  Yes,  I'm  staying  .    .    .   with  all  of  you." 

"  Yes,  this  is  your  home.    .    .    .   And  your  wife  ?  " 

"  We  shall  see.    That  will  settle  itself." 

"  So  .  .  .  there's  nothing  certain  yet  .  .  . 
about  Mathilde?" 

"  No,  nothing  certain.  ...  I  write  to  her  once 
a  month;  she  writes  rather  oftener  .  .  .  about  the 
children.    She's  very  good  to  them." 

"  So   .    .    .no  talk  of  a  divorce?" 

"  No,  no  talk  of  that.  .  .  .  Perhaps,  later,  all 
will  come  right  between  us.  Perhaps,  on  the  other 
hand,  she  will  feel  that  she  would  sooner  be  free 
...   in  spite  of  the  children." 

They  both  thought  of  Erzeele. 

"  So  you  don't  know  anything  yet?  " 

"  No,  not  yet.  It  will  settle  itself.  It  must  settle 
itself  some  day." 

"  You  see,  my  boy,  I'm  different.  In  your  place, 
I  should  have  fought  a  duel  with  Erzeele.    I  should 


3i6  DR.  ADRIAAN 

have  had  a  divorce  ...  if  my  wife  didn't  care 
for  me,  if  she  cared  for  Erzeele." 

"  Yes,  Father,  I  know,  that's  you.    I'm  different." 

"  You're  better." 

*'  No,  not  better.  But,  whatever  I  may  be,  I  am 
first  of  all  your  son." 

"You,  my  son?  You're  my  friend,  my  pal;  al- 
ways have  been." 

"  And  suppose  I  now  wanted  to  be  .  .  .  your 
son?  I  have  come  back  feeling  very  sad  and  very 
tired,  because  I  feel  that  I  am  much  to  blame." 

"  Nothing  has  happened?  " 

"  No." 

"What  has  happened?  Nothing  at  all.  You're 
too  fond  of  thinking.  What  you  have  to  do  now  is 
to  seek  your  own  happiness.    Just  selfishly." 

"  Perhaps  .  .  .  if  I  can.  Perhaps  that  will  be- 
come Mathilda's  happiness  too.  We  shall  see.  But 
I  don't  feel  certain  of  myself.  I  don't  know  things. 
And  I  now  feel  .  .  .  not  your  friend  and  pal  but 
your  son.  Father.  I  seem  to  feel  it  for  the  first 
time." 

"  You  always  used  to  know  things." 

"  For  you,  Daddie,  and  for  Mamma.  But  now, 
now  ..." 

"  Now  you're  my  son." 

"  Yes." 

"  My  big  boy." 

"Father." 

Van  der  Welcke  was  standing  in  front  of  him; 
Addie  was  sitting  down.  And  Van  der  Welcke  now 
took  his  son's  head  in  his  hands. 

"  Father,"  said  Addie,  "  I  wonder  if  you  realize 
.,  .  .  how  devotedly  I  love  you!  It's  something 
that  I  feel  only  for  my  parents  and  for  my  children, 
not  for  any  woman." 

"  You're  a  funny  chap,"  said  Van  der  Welcke. 


DR.  ADRIAAN  317 

"  But  it  is  not  your  fault.    It  is  your  parents'  fault.'* 

*'  If  you  only  knew,"  Addie  repeated,  "  how  de- 
votedly I  love  you  .  .  .  and  Mamma !  .  .  . 
And  all  of  them  here  a  bit  too !  .  .  .  If  I  had  my 
children  here,  then  .  .  .  Perhaps,  perhaps  they 
will  come  back  later  .  .  .  very  much  later,  with 
.  .  .  with  Mathilde.  .  .  .  Look  here,  if  that 
ever  happens,  we  must  all  of  us  .  .  .  behave  dif- 
ferently to  her." 

"  Yes,  my  dear  boy." 

"  Or  try  to." 

"  Yes,  old  fellow,  I  know  what  you  mean.  We'll 
all  do  it   .    .    .   for  your  sake." 

*'  You  see,  she  is  my  wife.  I  ...  I  am  to  blame 
for  everything.     If  you  will  try   .    .    . " 

"Yes." 

"//  she  comes  back.  .  .  .  Perhaps  she  won't 
come.   ..." 

"  Do  you  want  her  to?  " 

"Yes,  I  do.  I  can't  do  without  my  children 
.    .    .   like  this." 

"  But  you'll  see  them  now  and  again." 

"  Yes.  So,  if  she  does  come  back,  you  promise, 
Dad   .    .    ." 

"  That  I'll  try." 

"  And,  if  they  will  all  try,  then  .  .  .  then  I  shall 
be  happy." 

"  Yes,  they'll  do  it,  for  your  sake.    But  ..." 

"  If  she  comes  back,  I  honestly  believe  .  .  . 
that  she  will  have  learnt  .  .  .  also  to  try  .  .  . 
to  like  us  all  a  little." 

"  You  mustn't  be  angry,  Addie,  that  it  was  not 
like  that  at  once.  She  is  so  different  .  .  .  from 
all  of  us." 

"  Yes,  it's  my  fault." 

"  No,  my  boy,  don't  go  thinking  that  and  worry- 
ing about  it." 


3i8  DR.  ADRIAAN 

"  No,  Father." 

"  What  you've  got  to  do  now  is  to  try  and  be 
happy  among  us  all  .  .  .  to  work  ...  to  pick 
up  your  work  again,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  just  so." 

"  And  then,  gradually,  to  let  things  come  .  .  . 
as  you  say.  .  .  .  Would  it  upset  you  very  much 
if  she  and  Erzeele   ..." 

"  Yes.  Because  I  should  then  feel  my  short- 
comings towards  her  still  more  strongly.  .  .  . 
And  also  because  of  my  children." 

"  Perhaps  things  will  come  right,  later,  my  boy." 

"  Perhaps." 

*'  Take  it  all  calmly  now  .  .  .  and  don't  worry. 
And  just  do  your  work  here  quietly." 

"  Yes,  Father.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  feel  that  you  are  my 
father!" 

"  Perhaps  for  the  first  time !  .  .  .  A  different 
part  for  your  old  ruffian  of  a  father  I  " 

"You're  not  an  old  ruffian,  you're   ..." 

Addie  stood  up  and  embraced  his  father. 

"  Don't  squeeze  the  breath  out  of  my  body  I  " 
said  Van  der  Welcke.  "  You're  strong  enough  still. 
And  you're  looking  well  too.  Your  eyes  look  inter- 
ested again,  even  though  they're  a  bit  too  pensive. 
And  they  were  always  calm.  .  .  .  Did  you  have 
an  interesting  time  abroad?  " 

"  I  saw  a  great  deal  of  misery  .  .  .  but  also  a 
great  deal  of  good-will.   ..." 

"That's  it:  do  what  you  can  here,  just  simply, 
in  your  own  surroundings.-  Oh,  my  dear  chap,  how 
glad  I  am  that  you're  back!  " 

Gerdy  looked  in  at  the  door : 

"May  we  never  come  in?  .  .  .  Uncle  Henri, 
3'ou're  being  selfish  about  Addie  I   ..." 

"  You  may  come  in,  dear." 

Addie  took  her  hands : 


DR.  ADRIAAN  319 

"  Will  you  be  strong,  Gerdy?  " 

She  sobbed  and  laughed  through  her  tears: 

"  I  have  tried  to  be  all  the  time,  Addie,"  she 
whispered.    "  But  for  you   ..." 

"  You  know,  life  isn't  all  your  first  suffering." 

"  No,  so  you've  told  me." 

"  And  you  must  believe  it.  .  .  .  It  will  help 
you.  .  .  .  You  have  such  ^  long  future  before 
you." 

"Yes.    Oh,  Addie,  Addie,  but  for  you   ..." 

"What?" 

"  I  should  have  died !  I  have  suffered  so,  I  have 
suffered  so !  " 

"  And  you  see  so  much  suffering  around  you. 
.    .    .    But  life   ..." 

"  Isn't  all  your  first  suffering  ...   as  you  say." 

"  And  you  must  believe  it." 

"  Yes,  I'll  try." 

Constance  entered ; 

"  Am  I  to  see  nothing  of  my  boy  this  evening?  " 
she  asked,  bantcringly. 

He  took  her  in  a  clinging  embrace : 

"  You've  got  him  home  for  good  now." 

She  gave  a  sob: 

"My  poor  child   .    .    .   then  I  haven't  lost  you  ?  " 

"Lost  me?    Why?" 

"A  son   ..."  ^ 

"  You've  always  been  afraid  ...  of  losing  me. 
But  you  never  have  lost  me." 

"  No,  never.  .  .  .  Tell  me,  dear,  am  I  to 
blame ?    I  am  to  blame,  am  I  not?  " 

"How?" 

"  About  Mathilde." 

"  No,  you're  not  to  blame.  .  .  .  But,  //  she 
comes  back,  later,  with  the  children,  Mamma,  let  us 
try  ..." 

"  Yes,  dear,  yes.'* 


320  DR.  ADRIAAN 

"  We  will,  won't  we  ?  We  must  try  .  .  .  to 
bring  ourselves  into  harmony  with  her  as  far  as 
possible.   ..." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  will  try." 

"  And  all  of  us." 

"  Yes,  all  of  us." 

"That's  so,  Gerdy,  isn't  it?    We  must  all   .    .    ." 

"  What  did  you  say,  Addie?  " 

"  I  was  saying,  Gerdy,  if  Mathilde  comes  back, 
later  on   .    .    ." 

"Yes   ..." 

"  Would  you  be  willing  to  try  .  .  .  with  all  of 
us,  with  Papa  and  Mamma,  with  every  one  of  us 
.  .  .to  get  into  harmony  with  her  as  far  as 
possible,  so  that  she   ..." 

"Yes,  oh,  Addie,  yes!    I'll  try  I" 

"You  will?" 

"  Oh,  yes !  .  .  .If  she  comes  back,  I'll  try, 
Addie,  I'll  try.'; 

"  My  dear,  listen  to  it  blowing." 

"  That's  our  wind.  Mamma." 

"  Yes,  always." 

Marietje  and  Adeletje  had  now  gone  into  the 
dining-room;  Adeline  and  Emilie  came  after  them. 

"  Why  is  it  so  dark  in  there?  "  asked  Marietje. 

"  Grandmamma's  taking  a  nap." 

"  We  must  take  her  to  bed,"  said  Constance. 

Adeletje  turned  up  the  gas. 

"  Auntie !  "  cried  Marietje,  in  alarm. 

"What  is  it,  dear?" 

"  Oh,  Auntie,  Auntie   .  - .    .   come  here !  " 

Constance  came  in,  with  Addie  and  Gerdy. 

"  Is  Grandmamma  ...  is  Grandmamma  .  .  .  ?  " 
stammered  Marietje,  aghast. 

They  all  looked  at  the  old  woman.  She  was 
sitting  as  usual,  sitting  quietly  in  her  big  chair,  with 


DR.  ADRIAAN  321 

her  veined  and  wrinkled  hands  folded  in  her  black 
lap.  Her  head  hung  back,  framed  white  in  her 
white  hair.  All  knowledge  was  hers  now;  and  her 
old  mouth  smiled  because  of  it,  encouragingly.  .    .,  ,., 


THE  END 


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